Rosary - garden of roses, garden of thoughts

For V

2010-07-02T11:19:00.005-04:00

I once had a horrible struggle with nunhood.

I remember praying every night--every single night, and I would cry--"Lord, I just want to be a mother; please don't make me be a nun." And then, because I felt I wasn't being open: "Okay Lord, I will be a nun if you want me to." I prayed this in bed with tears streaming down my face, because I was terrified God would take me at my word.

I remember, too, a specific Mass, a specific Communion, where I knelt there and FORCED myself to want nunhood as much as motherhood. I created some emotions, suppressed some others, and voila--"openness." A week or so later I asked my mom if there were convents nearby we could visit. She gave me a funny look, told me there were, and I said I wanted to visit them.

The next night she sat me down and asked why. (Because my struggle had been entirely secret. Every now and then I thought, "Maybe I should tell Mom what I'm feeling." And then I thought: "But she'll just tell me what I *want* to hear--that if I don't want it it's probably not my vocation." And so I didn't tell her. Thus, my request to visit convents came out of the blue.)

I have always, always wanted to be a mother. And so my mom, surprised, wanted to hear me talk about why I wanted to visit convents all of a sudden. So I told her, because I want to be open.

And I broke down. I bawled. She asked me questions--the kind of sensible questions you ask people about why you think something is God's will for your life--and I had no answers except that I felt guilty for not wanting to be a nun. And telling it to my Mom there, I realized how twisted up I'd become inside.

I still struggled some after that initial conversation, and there were a few other times when I had to talk to her about it, to dispel the darkness.

Because it was darkness. I know this will sound melodramatic, but there was something pushing me--a voice that said, "No, don't tell your mom, she'll only tell you what you want to hear." That whispered, "You want this too much; don't you care about what God wants?" Not a literal voice, of course, but a very, very literal influence; and it was NOT the Holy Spirit. I couldn't see it at the time, but I look back and realize it was my clearest experience of Satan to date. And to date, I can't think of having a vocation without having bile rise in the back of my throat.

I think this is a pretty clear sign I'm not called to the religious life. Ha. When I think of the people I know who do have vocations--my dear cousin and close friend Regina, Claudia, Mary Beth--their certainty and joy came so naturally to them, that I think that is the sign of a true vocation.

A great consolation, which I didn't receive until later, was that even though I did not have a vocation, even though the suggestion did not come from God, I realized that He nonetheless accepted my struggle. That although he would NEVER have sent me the anxiety and distress I went through, the fact I suffered it at all was because I loved Him and desired His will. (Misguided, misdirected, but love.) That the fact I suffered these things at all was openness. So the suggestion that lack of desire to be a nun showed a lack of openness was a lie.

Not that I'm saying anyone else is experiencing the Devil in their lives if their situation is similar to mine! This is my personal experience, not a public revelation.

But I do know some things: That the Holy Spirit brings peace and overwhelming joy. That when souls desire to love and serve God, the Devil can't necessarily draw them away from him through sin; so he tries other, subtler means. That decisions about a vocation are not the fruit of emotional turmoil. That if you don't know, if it is upsetting you and stressing you out and stealing your peace, maybe what God is calling you to do is to let go--to stop thinking about it for now.

If nothing else, I think it is very important to share such struggles with wise and trusted people, because our brains and emotions do horrible things on their own, banging around inside our heads. Sometimes even the act of telling someone else brings clarity.

Because clarity, that is of God. Confusion and storms are not. He is the Rock amid the storms of our hearts. His hands are gentle, so so gentle, and he would never force anything on us.

Real blog

2010-04-01T11:37:00.002-04:00

It is here.

Enjoy.

Revisitation

2009-09-08T19:07:00.003-04:00

This post ...

I made it on my first day of college. More than four years ago, it was. Indeed.

Every now and then I bump into this place, one way or another, and it is rather crazy to see at once how very much and how very little I've changed. What delights me is the obvious joy I took in writing these posts.

Now I start a new phase of my life: graduate school, teaching, living on my own. Time, I imagine, will be less available than it's ever been. (Why is it taking me HOURS to read assignments and plan classes??)

And yet ... maybe I should start blogging more regularly again. Not simply livejournal posts about personal things, but stories that relish life and semi-philosophical rambles.

I know I tend to idealize the past, but I feel like blogging like I did here, at least in some small way, made me a deeper person.

Hm.

2007-11-03T18:05:00.000-04:00

Because no one ever reads here anymore, and that's ok ...

But right now I feel horribly lonely. I suspect it's rather silly of me. How one evening not going as planned could upset me so. Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I'm stressed. I ... don't know.

But I am lonely. So very much so.

On miracles, and boys that need smacking.

2007-07-10T17:40:00.000-04:00

Because some really do.

Need smacking, that is.

Boys, not miracles.

Allow me to elaborate:

I work at a supermarket as a cashier, for those who didn't know. (Or a grocery store. Supermarket is a rather grandiose term for the place I work. :-D ) It's right on the outskirts of our little town, and though there are other stores nearby, there aren't any others within a 15 minute drive or so. (Which, to the people around here, is seemingly a great distance.) In any case, it's a nice place to work, so far as college-student jobs go. You get to know the regulars. They remember your name, and seek out your register from all the others, and notice when you're not there for a week. It makes you feel like a part of something. :-)

IWhat truly brightens my day, though, are the kids. Shy ones, talkative ones, girls with big and bright smiles or shy little boys - they all leave me with a smile on my face and a warm glow in my heart.

Except one.

There is a lady with three children, the youngest a baby, the oldest about ... four? Five? You always know they're there five minutes after they walk in. Either because you hear the mother's voice yelling from across the store - or because the lights go off.

This little boy knows where the light switch is, and he abuses that knowledge. And the mother doesn't stop him. She just yells.

And yells.

And yells.

It is a miracle that woman still has a voice!

I try not to judge. She seems unable to manage her children at all; but then, the boy is *very* bad. He's so disruptive, and there's nothing we can do about it except watch and clean up after him. But perhaps I would do worse with a "trouble child" of my own. It's hard to trace cause and effect.

But the yelling has to stop. Because they don't hear it anymore. It's a constant stream of *noise*, and it's never followed by anything. When all the mother gives them is words, why should her children listen?

She said to me one day (very vehemntly), "I wish you were still allowed to beat your kids."

Meanwhile, Jacob was running off with a cart used for loading things, heading straight for the door.

She turned helplessly to the manager and said, "Could you please get him?"

After several more mishaps (involving candy, licking the register, and bolting across the store again) and much more yelling, the boy was seated in the cart. While his mother strapped his sister in, I placed a pen on the counter for her to give me her signature ... and he grabbed it.

Then he looked at me, holding it just beyond my reach, waiting for my reaction.

And I looked back at him, and said, in a very low and threatening voice:

"No. Give me that now."

And he gave it to me immediately.

I stared at him several moments, and he stared back. And he didn't move a muscle after that.

This was several days ago. Today he was just as misbehaved as ever - but the way he looked at me showed he remembered, and was watching.

*****

But that was not a miracle, by a longshot. And a miracle I promised! :-D

Some friends of ours in MI, for various reasons (none of which are their own fault), have been unemployed for some time. They have four children (the eldest of whom is six or seven years old) and are expecting another, so things are very, very difficult for them right now. Despite their circumstances, however, they will not use birth control. They have remained open to life and to God's plan all through this time, placing their trust in Him.

(In fact, if you would say a prayer for them, their names are Marie and John. For those of you who don't understand how the whole birth control thing would matter at all, ignore it. You'll still appreciate what follows. ;-) )

One day a week or two ago, they were all piling out of the van, and Marie tried to shut the passenger door. It wouldn't close. So she slammed it again, harder - and still it wouldn't shut. She slammed it five or six times - and then suddenly saw the reason it wouldn't close.

Her oldest son's hand was caught in it.

Marie ran screaming into the house. John ran around to see what was wrong, and when he took his son's hand ... it was horrible. Bloody, mangled, broken ... ruined. He dropped to his knees on the driveway, and said out loud: Why? Lord, we have trusted you, we have remained open to your will even during this time ... what are we going to do?

And when he looked down at his son's hand, it was healed, with nothing more than a red line across the palm.

Trust in God ... He loves you. He watches you. And that love is beyond anything we can imagine. I remember realizing for the first time that God doesn't have emotions - because they are created things, part of humanity. Jesus, of course, experienced them; but the love of God isn't an emotion.

It's something so much bigger, deeper, greater than we can imagine. If we knew, we could not stand it.

He clothes the lilies of the fields, and knows when a sparrow falls. The hairs on your head are counted.

Have a beautiful day everyone. :-)

No use crying over spilt coffee ...

2007-05-09T18:35:00.000-04:00

Well. I could (coughcoughshouldcoughcough) be working on my Shakespeare exam. But I have various good things to tell - at least, things that struck me as blogworthy, even if some of them are rather random.

Near 10 pm Sunday night, I stuck my head inside a piano. I slid back the front panels on our ancient upright (used to be a player piano, but they removed the mechanical innards), and - there I went! Why, you may ask? I was investigating. I wanted to see how thick the wires where; how sturdy the bolts that held them in place; how far my arm could reach towards the end. It was as though I were planning to take it apart.

And I was. Just not really.

We'll call it "research" and leave it at that. :-D

Then there's Dr. O'Connor. I had an appointment with him last week (that's a story in itself, which some of you have heard already); and he lent me his Flannery O'Connor book to read over the summer. I was very excited, because 1) I've been meaning to read her; 2) it was exciting to have a prof lend me a book :-) ; and 3) I have forgotten my third reason. (No more IMing and blogging at once!)

So I sat with my morning cup of coffee, ready to crack open the book. When suddenly my dog, who was sitting on the other end of the couch with my brother, lunges at me in an attempt to get off, spilling coffee all over the couch, the floor, myself ... and the book.

I literally screamed. I dashed into the kitchen, book in hand, and wiped it off. Thank GOODNESS, it only got on the cover, and wiped off easily!! The front page is a little stained, like it got some water on it; but that's it.

A very close call. O_O

This afternoon I bought deoderant. It was so exciting!! (The sad thing is I'm serious. *grin*)

One more final - Shakespeare. And ... Kim is going to kill me, but ... I'm excited to take it. :-) I'll miss Shakespeare very much. But I have a feeling you'll spot me now and then, still lugging around that thirty pound book, with little page-markers sticking out of it in all directions. :-)

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried I to dream again. (The Tempest, 3. 2)

(Originally posted Wednesday, April 18th)

2007-04-22T17:43:00.000-04:00

Something very unexpected happened last night.

I was elected treasurer for the Newman Club.

Now, I haven't been around the Newman club much lately. It makes me feel a little guilty, especially since my friend Heather is the president this year. But ... I don't know. It's basically the same as any nondenominational Christian group ... which is fine; but that's not what it's there for. It's there for Catholics, as a place where they can grow and support each other in their Catholic faith. (Believe me, as a Catholic there are things you do not say around nonCatholic Christians unless you want to get eaten alive.) And the people there, well ... they don't really care that they're Catholic as opposed to any other denomination. They don't know the first thing about their faith.

And it frustrated me.

But before night class, Heather stopped me in the hall, and we were talking, and I mentioned I'd be there that evening. Good! she said. We're having elections. Would you be an officer?

Now. Normally, if someone asked me to be the officer of something, unless it was something I loved, I would be very put off. I get stressed easily enough as it is ... and ... the Newman club?

But I felt a strange openness. Not a desire to accept; but the feeling that, whatever happened would happen - it was in God's hands.

I can't sufficiently describe to you how opposite this reaction was to what I would have expected, and how much it surprised me ... It was so NOT me, that I thought - maybe this is from God?

Anyhow. Three hours later I was treasurer. (Almost vice president, hehe.) The officers, I understand, work more as a unit than anything else; so I'll have more influence than you'd normally think of a treasurer as having.

End part one. Cue part two: I woke up this morning. I went to class. And then I went to the Newman Center's Wednesday Mass.

It turned out to be only a communion service, because Fr. Armstrong couldn't make it. But all the usual folks were there - including the girl I notice there quite often, but for some reason had never talked to.

I had a lot of homework to do, so I was out pretty quickly afterwards. I was literally down the sidewalk and around the corner when Diane (the "youth minister", so to speak, who runs the center) rushed outside and called my name. I returned to receive a hug and congratulations; and she told me: "Rosemary ... I am so, so glad you are an officer. I think you're going to bring a lot here, and change things for the better."

Before, I was a little cautious of saying "this is God's will." Sometimes things do just happen, after all; and ... I don't know. I was scared to think it, because 1) it made it into a much bigger commitment for me to think of it in that light, and 2) it felt proud. Because that was exactly what I thought: maybe, maybe God could use me to take away the fluffiness, the lack of focus, to make it truly, passionately, unabashedly Catholic.

But here was Diane, echoing my thoughts. And I told her what I felt about it: how disappointed I was in the Newman Club, and sad. And she agreed. And you know something? With Heather, and the girl elected president ... I think we can do it.

And then the girl walked out.

Her name is Stephanie.

She wanted to go to Steubenville, but it was too expensive. And she came to visit SRU - this liberal, immoral school where you're all but alone in your faith when it comes to fellow students sharing your beliefs - and she sat down in the adoration chapel. And there, in that room, was every reason - the Reason - she wanted to attend Steubie; and if He was there, something good must be on this campus. And so SRU it was.

Sound familiar?

That's because the "she" in that paragraph is me. And yet as I told her that story, Stephanie's eyes welled up; because, word for word, it is her story too.

I can't believe I haven't talked to this girl before!! But God has given her to me now - and His timing is impeccable, as always.

After half an hour of amazing conversation, I called Liz to tell her my news; and she read me passages from the book Captivating, including a passage from Hosea, which ... well, I was literally crying. Because it spoke to me so very exactly. I shall look up the passage if I can and post it here.

God is so amazing, and wise, and His love amazes me at every turn.

4.0

2007-04-11T22:57:00.000-04:00

This is the me I should be.

I should be keeping up my 4.0 QPA with little struggle - just true work, within my reach and abilities.

I should be writing. Not only writing, but sending out stories; composing an novel; getting involved in all sorts of networking as an author; plunging myself into editing duties at DKA.

I should be keeping in touch with all my friends.

I should be reading Scripture every day, and spending time with God every night.

I should be going to bed earlier so I'm not exhausted each afternoon.

I should not be afraid to speak out to the girls at work about morality; nor should I be judging them, or letting them tell me about their morally crappy lives; they should all love me and therefore wish to emulate me in every way because they see the light of Christ that is in me.

I should change all hearts around me - those that need to learn, should be taught; those who need encouragement, should be made happy; I should know all things of all people, and make them better.

I should not be impatient with my family.

This is the me that I am.

I am procrastinating typing my two page Shakespeare response due tomorrow, even though in the morning I'll have to do Philosophy and in the afternoon I'll be working on a newsletter, therefore making this the only time I have for it.

I haven't written a word of fiction except for class since the semester began.

I've read all of two or three submissions in the past few weeks.

I haven't spoken to Katie in ages; there are three letters sitting unanswered from distant friends; etcetera.

Megan asked me why I was so mad when I told her the pill would kill her baby if she was pregnant.

I have a B so far in Meteorology, and everyone looks at me weird when I complain about it - while all I can think of is that I want to be a Presidential Scholar again next year.

I am always glad when I set aside time for prayer; but to do so is a struggle.

This is the me God wants me to be.

To love Him above all things, and to let go. To aim for my best, and not for perfection. To consecrate to Him my efforts with hope and love; my successes with gratitude and humility; my failures with faith. To not be all things for all people, but to be what He created me to be. Which is:

His.

Heehee.

2007-04-09T19:20:00.000-04:00

2007-04-06T21:09:00.000-04:00

But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and by his stripes we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5)

O Sacred Head surrounded by crown of piercing thorn!
O bleeding Head so wounded, reviled and put to scorn!
Death's pallid hue comes o'er Thee, the glow of life decays,
Yet angel hosts adore Thee and tremble as they gaze.

I see thy strength and vigor all fading in the strife,
And death, with cruel rigor, bereaving Thee of life;
O agony and dying! O love to sinners free!
Jesus, all grace supplying, O turn Thy face on me.

In this, Thy bitter passion, Good Shephered think of me
With thy most sweet compassion, unworthy though I be;
Beneath Thy Cross abiding forever would I rest,
In Thy dear love confiding, and in Thy presence blest.

Holy Thursday

2007-04-05T15:20:00.000-04:00

Brethren, I received from the Lord what I also delivered to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, "This is my body which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me." In the same way also the cup, after supper, saying, "This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me." For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes.

Whoever, therefore, eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of profaning the body and blood of the Lord. Let a man examine himself, and so eat of the bread and drink of the cup. For any one who eats and drinks without discerning the body eats and drinks judgment upon himself. That is why many of you are weak and ill, and some have died. But if we judged ourselves truly, we should not be judged. But when we are judged by the Lord, we are chastened so that we may not be condemned along with the world.

(1 Corinthians 11:23-32)

Oh wonderful gift, so far surpassing our hope, our thought, our understanding! Oh most Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist!

Have a blessed Triduum, everyone. You are all in my prayers; keep me in yours! I hope to get to Mass this evening, services on Friday; and I hope they have confession Saturday (or Friday, if the opportunity arises).

(Thanks to Noah, who providentially posted the same passage of Scripture I wanted to, thus saving me the trouble of typing it myself.)

A thought ...

2007-03-19T19:30:00.000-04:00

It is not enough to bring Christ to others.

We must be Christ to others.

And that will bring more souls to Him than any amount of preaching could.

A long post broken into random chunks.

2007-03-12T11:49:00.000-04:00

Writing and Myself (a rant)

As I sit here procrastinating Shakespeare (among other things), I figured I might as well allow myself to *feel* productive, even if I don’t get anything incredibly useful done. And on my list of things to do while on break (it was on my list for Friday, actually) was to type up this post. No really, it was. So, post I shall.

Sometimes I wonder if I should major in writing. I wonder if I’m up to it. I mean, I haven’t written anything of my own accord since National Novel Writing Month – there’s no time. And yet a small voice inside me whispers: you think there’s going to be more after you graduate? This is as good as it gets … if you don’t have the dedication to write now, you think you’re going to make it?

More discouraging, however, is writing class. I’ve learned some brilliant things from that course, and the one I took last semester. It’s a fun class, and I love Dr. O’Connor, despite (and because of) all his quirks. But I sit there at that desk, and look at myself as a writer, and think: oh wyrd … I can’t do this. And … I don’t know if I even want to.

I have to keep reminding myself: this is not WHY I do it. This is not MY art. Because, really, that’s what a lot of my discouragement comes down to. I write in search of beauty, not to achieve some vague and often depressing artistic ideal. In search of beauty – and therefore Truth. In search of Truth – and therefore God. Creating, because I am made in the image of a Creator. This is art.

But not in Dr. O’Connor’s writing class.

Lyn (Or, the introduction of Common Sense to the Writer-Reader-Text Triangle)

This is why I am so blessed to have writing friends – people who understand. One of these friends is Lyn, who I got to see last Monday. We hadn’t seen each other since … August? So it was wonderful. :) And we talked in loud and happy voices about writing, and literature, and how the literati are all screwed up and have everything backwards.

Last semester I took a course that focused on different forms of literary criticism – reader-response, psychological, biographical, historical, feminist, etc. Apparently Lyn had some of the same. And we were talking about the author-reader-text triangle … and how all professors flip it upside down. In other words, sometimes the reader is at the top – how the individual reads and responds to a narrative is the most important thing in making a work what it is. And sometimes the “text” is at the top – the novel, or poem, or work is the most important thing, basically its own, self-contained little world, no matter who does or doesn’t read it.

But the author is invariably at the bottom. We need to figure out what the TEXT says – not what the author was trying to tell us! So let’s pick it apart – use the feminist approach, or Marxist, or maybe a little Queer Theory – we’ll make it say what WE want it to. What we think is what it is; who cares if the author wasn’t Marxist? Who cares if they lived during a time when gayness wasn’t even an issue?

The author has nothing to say whatsoever.

One has to wonder … if this is the case, why did the person even bother writing? It is, after all an act of communication.

In Lyn's case, the prof put the author at the top of the triangle in one instance - the Bible. But this, she said, would be the only case you could do that - because God is perfect.

Wha ...?

When we create, we are imitating God. I don't understand how human authors' imperfection takes that away. Without the author, the text would not EXIST; and therefore, there would be no reader. As writers, perhaps, we are rather more upset by this than other people. But still ... isn't it obvious?

Anyhow, it was quite a refreshing conversation. :-) Lyn, should you read this ... you rock. *hugs*

The Triangle (some purposeful ponderings)

So the other night I was wondering ... If the author is at the top of the triangle, which is next in importance? The reader, or the work itself?

I believe Lyn would say the text; but my first instinct was to answer the reader. Because if writing is an act of communication, there must be someone on the receiving end to complete it. And without a reader, a book is nothing more than paper with a bunch of meaningless black marks dancing across the page. Ink cannot become letters, and letters can not form words, unless a human mind brings them together.

And yet one could argue that's already been done by the author. And one could argue that, without the text, no communication would be possible.

Reading is subjective - but not entirely so. An author could write a message in his novel; and the work could sit untouched for years and years, unread until long after the writer's death. And then someone could pick it up and read it for the first time - and while they will have their own personal reaction, give it their own shades of meaning and interpret it through their experience, if the author was good enough, they will get it. They will read the exact same words that were meant to be read, in the *way* they were meant to be read. And that message will have existed all those years in the text. Was the meaning not there in the time in between?

Perhaps ... perhaps the work - the novel, the painting, the composition - has an existence outside of itself. I don't mean that the paint itself, the ink on the paper or the notes of music have souls ... but only that they themselves are not the Thing, but only the container for it - a means of perceiving beauty. When we create, we feel we are touching something real ... something beyond the page.

Tangents?

Think about words themselves for a moment. Think about speaking. The words are not the meaning. When you say "blue", you mean the color - but the word blue is NOT the color. There is blue out there, but we cannot actually speak it. The meaning and the word are not the same thing.

And yet words themselves generate meaning. How many concepts are we aware of only because they have a word to them? How many different shades of the same basic meaning?

I'm not sure where I'm going with this anymore. I haven't made my point, but I forgot how I was going to bring this together. :whatevah: I was trying to figure out whether the work or the reader had more importance on the triangle. Now I've gotten off into something completely different ... :-P Perhaps the question is unanswerable anyway. There would be no reader without a text to be read; but what's the purpose of a text without a reader?

Anyhow. If you have finished reading this, I congratulate you. Not only is it a long, nearly incoherent ramble - it pretends, in some way, to be wise and philosophical; and rambling that pretends wisdom is almost always unbearable to read. :-D I shall go back through and put in headings in the hope it helps.

Perspective...

2007-03-06T08:48:00.001-05:00

It wasn't as bad as I thought last night. It's ok.

And even if it wasn't ... he could have acted differently, too. So.

I am much better now.

A different kind of grieving ...

2007-03-05T21:21:00.000-05:00

I wasn't going to go to square dance tonight. Too much homework - which I still have not started on past 9pm. It was just too much trouble.

And then I remembered. Nathan was cuing. For the last night all year.

And so I decided to go, but leave very early - partly because of the homework, partly because of Nathan.

It was so much easier than I'd imagined ... and so much harder. Hard to see him standing up on stage, so far away his face was just a smudge with glasses, and not want to be any closer; and hurting because I didn't want to be closer, because I *did*. When I asked him, at the beginning of the end, where we were at, he said: where we were before; how we were before we started dating.

Of course, that was impossible; and yet, in some weird way, it had happened. I wanted to talk to him; but I wanted him to talk to me. I stared at the round dancers as he cued, having no partner. I wondered, as I danced in the squares and he sat in the back (in turn, without a partner - at least I have my brother for squares), I wondered: Is he watching me? And I wanted him to be.

So much like it was before.

We were so far apart. But how can it be possible for me to be so distant from one I know so well? I held his hand; I rested my head on his shoulder; I stood in his embrace, and felt his kiss on my hair; how can we pass each other with averted eyes? How can I be so emotionally far away from him?

Ha. This from one who cries as she types this. And yet ... it's true. The hurt is no longer so direct.

Because one thing I realized as I looked at him, so close, so close - Nathan, so near to me; I couldn't be mad at him. I could be mad at his name; at what he did; I could be hurt. But not at the person that God created, that I had loved. He is such a good man, and the wrong he did me was not deliberate. Selfish, yes; but if only he'd seen his selfishness!!

As we passed the first time, I caught his eye, and smiled at him; and he smiled back. For the next 45 minutes there was no contact, unless he watched me from a distance as I did him (surely he did...?).

The second tip, I'd told myself. I was leaving after the second tip. And as the third tip started, I threw my scarf around my neck and started to get ready to go, without a word having passed between us.

And I felt like I should stay.

He wouldn't look at me; so I called him, and he did, looking surprised - his eyes lit a little, like they used to (but not with the same light.) And I said goodbye, Nathan; it was good to see you. (And so it was.) And he smiled, and looked genuinely surprised in a good way, and said, "It's good of you to say that. I'm glad to see you too." And I said something about having a lot of homework.

And I turned around and left, feeling I should stay; like I should have a conversation.

Oh God!! The Holy Spirit was whispering in my ear to stay, to talk; it felt good to talk to him, somehow. And I didn't ... I left. I left remembering the sensitive, emotional man I had once loved; left with my back turned to him, without even asking how his job was going, or his life, or anything.

And there - as I typed this mom just called, and his voice came over the phone as he cued a round in the background.

I hate myself for this. He isn't coming back to our club for the rest of the year ... I won't see him again. I don't *have* another chance. This was the only one - and I ruined it.

Oh, Lord ... there is nothing left to do. This loss is my own fault; and I ache for it.

Sometimes it's ok ...

2007-02-24T17:58:00.000-05:00

To still feel broken. Or lost. Or plain ol' depressed.

Someties it doesn't matter if you "should" still feel this way ... the fact of the matter is, you do. God works with you where you are. Healing takes time - eternity. Are there any wounds that truly disappear on this earth?

Sometimes ... the hurting is part of the healing.

Only I regret that I didn't talk then, because I think I would be much better now.

You know you live in Western Pennsylvania when ...

2007-02-21T19:25:00.000-05:00

You almost hit a bull standing in the middle of the road while driving home from work.

Yep. I was coming home from the supermarket where I work - which is literally only a minute or two away from my house - and as I passed our neighbor's cow pasture, I noticed one of his creatures trying to get over the wire fence. It's kind of a weird sight to see a cow straddling a fence, actually - they aren't the sort of animals you think of escaping all that often.

But there he was, halfway out; and I looked in my rearview mirror to see him trot into the middle of the road.

As soon as I reached my driveway I turned around and drove back - just in case the farmer wanted to know his bull was loose. Several cars had some close-encounters, and flashed their lights at me as I drove up.

So I pulled into the guy's driveway - almost got stuck, thanks to the snow - and tramped around in his yard in my sneakers (which are still wet) until I figured out which door wasn't boarded over, and rang the doorbell. Or rather, pulled the buzzer - a big cord from the porch's roof that went ZZZZZZZZT ZZZZZZZZT.

After standing there a couple minutes peering into the windows, I decided no one was coming, and began making my slushy way back to the car ... and there was the cow. Staring at me, back in the field where he should have been all along, as if nothing had happened.

And he was watching me. He watched me all the way to my car, and just as I reached it ... he began prancing in my direction.

Big bull with a hairy head who can climb fences running straight for me ... yeah. I wasn't taking any chances. He stopped when I got in the car - which I did pretty darn quickly, I can tell you.

By the time I'd backed out into the road, though, he was over the fence again and blocking an entire lane.

When I got home I went upstairs to my brother's room, where you could just see the farm through his window - and sure enough, there was the bull, causing quite a traffic jam. Last I saw of it, he was trotting down the driveway across the street from his home, going over to join the horses.

For a moment it looked like all the she-cows were going to follow him - they all trotted in a line towards the fence. But she-cows are not as big or brave or muscular as he-cows, and so they eventually turned back and high-tailed it (literally!) to the barn.

I watched the bull trot around with the horses for awhile. And you know what? He looked like he was having the time of his life.

Random thoughts

2007-01-08T17:52:00.000-05:00

... or not so random. :)

What a lovely, cold, windy day it is outside!! And there are even a few flakes, though barely enough to say it's snowing. But soon, perhaps ... soon! (Right in time for me to drive through it to school everyday, naturally. But I'm still happy.)

Today I met Joe for lunch, after not seeing him for a year and a half. (Long story. Or not so long, but I don't feel like telling it.) One of them was that he's been at school in MI (ironically) for the past three semesters. Which I didn't even know til about two months ago. I nearly had a heart attack when he IMed me out of the blue in October; and today we went to Applebee's.

It wasn't half as awkward as I'd feared, though it was a little surreal. And ... distant; there was a distance between us never there in years past. To be expected, I suppose. What was I expecting, after all? For him to be the same as before? And ... did I want that, even though I didn't want to return it? Oh, pride! Every man on earth must desire my love.

When we left, I felt ... saddened. Lonely. A sense of loss, an ache, a regret. How far, how fast time has flown, and how much I have left behind. Some of it good, some of it bad, and some of it good but still painful.

Maybe this was a good way to begin my year after all ... or maybe it wasn't.

I wish I had a college I didn't want to come home from like most of my friends.

Driving back this afternoon, I turned off the music, because inside of me was so silent. It didn't sound right to have it on. I was completely empty.

And if I am empty, He can fill every part of me and make it whole.

Now I'm rather sleepy. And feeling a bit melodramatic. But this isn't quite a sorry-for-myself mood ... if I don't feel better tomorrow, I shall work on improving my thoughts.

Letting go.

2006-11-05T14:58:00.000-05:00

Of anger, and bitterness, and pain. Acknowledging it's there; but not letting it control my life any more.

For control my life it does. It affects my outlook on everything, and so everything is bad. And when so many things are bad, they obscure the good. And without an awareness of the good things, I make my own life a misery - and so everyone else's.

Today after confession I knelt in the Church and talked to Jesus. And I asked, it sort of just came out of me: "Take his place in my heart."

And suddenly I realized I'd said the right thing.

It hurt ... I'm not sure exactly how to describe it. Only I realized how very shrunken my heart was, and I asked - Lord, where will you find room? How can You possibly enter here?

But no door, however small, is closed to Him; and he entered.

I know it's going to come back. But I shall follow Father's advice - watch my thoughts. Take control. It will take time to rebuild ... but rebuilt it shall be.

And I think I know now what I am going to do. I'm still scared - very scared!! But I trust. I need to talk it over with my parents first, to be sure ... but I think I know.

I have no idea what lies ahead. So much the better - it is in God's hands.

Blessed be Your Name!!

Blind.

2006-10-27T17:34:00.000-04:00

By Lifehouse.

I have a feeling only Gen comes here anymore (and she hasn't been in some time, I might add. :-P) But in case another someone should show up ... This is a truly beautiful song. I wish there was some way I could play it for you.

I was young but I wasn't naive
I watched helpless
As you turned around to leave
And still I have the pain I have to carry
A past so deep
Even you could not bury if you tried

After all this time
I never thought we'd be here
Never thought we'd be here
When my love for you was blind
But I couldn't make you see it
Couldn't make you see it

That I loved you more
Than you will ever know
And part of me died
When I let you
Go

I fall asleep only in hopes of dreaming
That everything
Would be like it was before
But nights like this it seems are slowly fleeting
Disappear
As reality comes crashing through the floor

After all this time
I never thought we'd be here
Never thought we'd be here
When my love for you was blind
But I couldn't make you see it
Couldn't make you see it

That I loved you more
Than you will ever know
And part of me died
When I let you
Go

After all this why
Would you ever want to leave it?
Maybe you could not believe it
That my love for you was blind
But I couldn't make you see it
Couldn't make you see it

That I loved you more
Than you will ever know
And part of me died
When I let you go,

I loved you more
Than you will ever know
And part of me died
When I let you

Go

Because ...

...it still aches.

Reflections on my own Stupidity.

2006-10-26T21:00:00.000-04:00

Sunday evening I am going to a corn maze. And I am going in male company.

Please pray for me. I intend to find out more about this guy that night, and see whether to leave doors open ... or make sure they're shut.

I see going out with someone like this as a means getting to know them better, to see if they're they're a likely candidate for courtship and a mature relationship. It isn't 'serious' for lack of a better word. But it's always hard to tell where other people's expectations lie ...

I just don't want to hurt any feelings, or make things uncomfortable at work. I'm a bit nervous about it, because ... well, KJ is really, really happy about this. I myself am rather detatched. (A good thing, I believe.)

It's just ... I've hurt someone before. I think rather deeply, because he didn't speak to me for nearly a year. We lost all contact ... then one day I nearly had a heart attack, because he IMed me out of the blue. He's in MI, ironically, going to school there.

I handled a delicate situation very ineptly. Partly because I was inexperienced; but a lot of it was plain idiocy on my part.

We just had a conversation this evening, and something about the way we parted made me feel awful. Just ... not what was said, or anything, but what lay behind it, in the past. I dunno.

I don't know about myself. I honestly don't. I've been noticing lately a trait that has grown in me these past months - the need to be involved with everyone, to know everything, to be THE insider that knows all the little subplots in life: the person people turn to for advice, the wise motherly figure who fixes everything.

Ah, the pride!

And I have poked my nose into a situation that I have no place in. Not my business, and I hardly know enough of what's going on to be of any use; but there I go, causing more upset in my attempt to solve problems that don't belong to me.

Anyhoo. My little lament for this evening...

Well ...

2006-10-23T21:32:00.000-04:00

I've been asked out.

We'll see what happens.

I only know one thing ... that no matter what,I cannot enter a relationship.

It is, of course, always flattering; but why? Why now? Why, when it hurts so much to be asked?

Yet I am feeling strangely detatched... I think that's a good thing.

Lately I feel like I'm going through a second pain.

Dragonfruit

2006-10-20T12:33:00.000-04:00

This subject again. ;) But this time it's a creative nonfiction piece for school. It's being read and discussed in class next Thursday ... by PEOPLE. :-o I'm kinda nervous ...

Anyhow ... Enjoy!:)

Back in a time when dragons roamed the earth, legends say, they were hunted by soldiers for the honor and glory of the chase. It was a dangerous task: dragons don’t die easily. They fought to their last, fiery breath was spent – and where that last flame went out, there was left a single fruit. This fruit was brought to kings and
emperors as a sign of victory, while the beast itself was butchered so all the men could feast on dragon flesh.

The most coveted meat was that taken from the base of the tail: the jaina. It was believed that this was where the dragon’s flame originated, and it was this cut that tasted the sweetest. Only the most privileged men tasted the jaina, for it was believed that whoever ate it was endowed with the creature’s strength, ferocity, and power.

So great was man’s desire for this meat and the gifts it gave, dragons were killed in increasing numbers, until finally they were hunted to extinction. They have all died; but their death itself lives on, their last breath immortalized in the fruit that now bears their name.

***

Dragonfruit is known by many names: pitaya, strawberry pear, thang loy. Native to Mexico and South America, it grows on a cactus: the hylocerus undatus, the Night-Blooming Cactus. These are no stereotypical cacti: the look like trees and climb stakes and trellises, even walls and ceilings if they are kept indoors. As the name suggests, they flower at night, releasing their rich fragrance into the darkness. White petals unfurl in spirals from the center, seeming to glow in the dusk, surrounded by red and yellow spikes like rays of the sun they cannot bear to face.

It is from these flowers dragonfruit is born. You’d guess immediately they came from a cactus. Their bright skin, pink or deep red, is prickled with green scales. It looks like a dragonfruit. They hang from the branches of the cactus like ornaments on a tree, fresh and plump beneath its shade, calling to be eaten. Some are large as a human fist; other are almost as big as your head.

Peel it, and it looks like nothing more than like a bleeding heart. Hearts like the Aztecs offered to their gods, pulled still beating out of a victim’s chest with a vicious hook – an act so practiced, it took an efficient fifteen seconds. Mexico has all but forgotten the Aztecs; but hylocerus undatus still grows in gardens and orchards in the land they once possessed.

***

To eat a dragonfruit, slice it in half. You will find inside something reminiscent of a kiwi: red or white flesh, depending on the variety, littered with countless black seeds. They are slightly crunchy and likely to get stuck between your teeth, but removing them is impossible.

And how does a dragon’s fruit taste? Spicy, flavorful, passionate? No; it is light and mellow, and mildly sweet. The taste belies the name. The flesh is delicious scooped out and eaten raw – after it has been chilled, of course. It can be served alone or with other fruits, or as the perfect compliment to ice cream or sorbet. Pastries and other desserts suit it well. Juice that sparkles on the tongue can be squeezed from it, and fermented it makes a fine wine.

***

Hylocereus undatus flourishes in some Asian climates. Many Vietnamese farmers have introduced it into their orchards. Unknown until recently, it is now a profitable export – everyone wants dragonfruit.

Fiber, vitamin C, minerals, phytoalbumins … you name it, dragonfruit has it, and lots of it. Not only does it contain antioxidants: it’s low in calories – it’s just plain healthy. The red fleshed varieties contain lycopene, a substance which fights cancer, prevents heart disease, and lowers your blood pressure. What’s not to love? Who wouldn’t want to try such a fruit? To share it with the world?

Snapple. Sobe. Tropicana. Capri Sun. Fuze. Vitamin Water. There’s enough to share, if we bottle it. So much more convenient that way: vitamins, energy, all at your fingertips. Just walk to your local convenience store or gas station.

Health, youth, immortality … Never grow old. Never die.

We lust for dragon flesh.

Today

2006-10-11T18:43:00.000-04:00

This morning, as I drove to school in the rain, I managed to convince myself that the secondary character is NOT the main character, though I'm sure she still believes otherwise. One of the things that had caused me most doubt was that the MC herself remained very quiet on this issue - she refused to speak up and defend herself, almost proving the other's charges that she was a less interesting and developed personality.

However, I discovered something about her. She is, in fact, quiet passionate - but it remains, for the most part, beneath the surface, deep inside. She isn't the sort of person to speak up and defend herself - it is part of her personality. And she is, in fact, the perfect person to see things from.

She's also the perfect person to play her role - which I knew all along, of course. It was never really a matter of who the events *happened* to - it was through whose eyes they were seen, in whose voice they were told.

This afternoon, between 11am and 1pm, was spent frantically typing up the Hemingway paper that resided in the scribbles in my writing about lit. notebook. I discovered as I typed that I had actually rather skimped on the last quarter last night as I wrote - the most important part of the paper, where everything comes together and I prove my point. Rather a nasty shock when one has only an hour before peer review.

It came together, however. I was rather shocked by the fact that the paper actually had a shape to it! Amazing what deadlines do for one's writing. (*grins at her fellow NaNoers*)

Still needs to be edited, of course; and I must put all the citations and such in. But pretty soon I shall shake the dust of Hemingway off my feet, and move on to happier things.

See, this paper is actually a group paper. But due to several things ... I've basically done everything myself. (It's not completely the other girl's fault ... circumstances are circumstances.) And it got pretty good peer reviews. "Good job girls!"

So as I rushed to the post office beneath a rainy sky, trodding on the colorful leaves beneath my feet, I was happy. Happy, because I had taken on Hemingway and won - in fact, I felt sorry for him. Happy, because I could smell that pine tree as I walked past. Happy, because I had a topic for two of the three speeches I have to give (informative on historical person/group/event: The Inklings. Persuasive: Why you should do NaNoWriMo) and the creative nonfiction essay I'll have to write soon (either on Rome, or Catholicism and Orthodoxy (not which is right, just ... I dunno, it's hard to explain, but I have words in my head)). And these topics excited me - and they were beautiful. As beautiful as the windy dampness in the air, and the trees.

It was a deep happiness - deeper than the things that caused it. And so it hurt.

I knew the hurt would come before I felt it. I wasn't waiting for it, exactly, but I knew it would come. The happiness was deep enough to touch that place in my heart where pain resides.

It's like a wound inflicted by a sword or dagger - narrow, but very deep. When the surface heals, the cut it still there beneath. Sometimes I can feel it physically, at the base of my throat - a strange constricting, like something's stuck, like the muscles are all tightening and I can't breathe.

I feel that way when I laugh at something - really, truly laugh, with everything, because my spirit's laughing with my voice. I get that feeling in my throat. Because nothing can move in my heart - not joy, not peace, not warmth, not sympathy, not a reaction to some cheesy hallmark movie - without disturbing the wound. I laugh as my family and I watch Bananas, then bury my face in the pillow so they won't see my cry. I hug my dog and feel his warmth, his softness, then ache so hard.

I visited Jesus today. He understands.

How long? I asked Him. How much longer?

As long as he wishes me to bear it.

On the way home I listened to Switchfoot. Lately I've become readdicted - I finally took The Beautiful Letdown out of my cd player after ... what, a week? A week of straight listening to it, over and over, beginning to end.

You wouldn't think I'd get inspirations for a fantasy novel by listening to Switchfoot. Funny how that works ... that and driving through the rain again. I remembered a scene I'd forgotten - it may well have never made it to my novel! Ack! And I discovered a new one ... a fiery, burning one, one that stumbles, gasping in the dark ... one that is pivotal. (Heh, it sounds rather dark, doesn't it? But it isn't. Burning brightly. Gasping from that moment of light.) I have this funny feeling it extends further than I know ... beyond my novel. But I'm not poking around too much just yet in that direction. I'd rather it be a surprise.

And here I sit, ten minutes after a conversation with my mom. Up and down, waves beating on the shore ... funny how some days work like that.

Anyhow. If you guys could please pray for discernment in a certain issue for me ... thank you so much. I'm really stressed about this, and it's hard to see things clearly because I'm terrified the right thing will be something I don't want. Not that I really know what I *do* want ... just what I don't.

And having my mom hammer at me things I already know is really, really stressful. I know it's her job, so to speak ... but it's upsetting much more than I already am.

Just a song ...

2006-09-30T15:55:00.000-04:00

Makes me all misty every time I hear it. Heard bits of the lyrics that I liked. Having googled it, it's not quite what I thought it was; but still.

I'm fifteen in for a moment,
Caught in between ten and twenty,
and I'm just dreaming,
Counting the ways to where you are.
I'm twenty-two for a moment,
and she feels better than ever,
and we're on fire,
Making our way back from mars.

[Chorus]
Fifteen, there's still time for you,
Time to buy and time to lose.
Fifteen.
There's never a wish better than this,
when you only got a hundred years to live.

I'm thirty-three for a moment,
I'm still the man, but you see I'm a they,
A kid on the way, babe
A family on my mind.
I'm fourty-five for a moment,
The sea is high and I'm heading into a crisis,
Chasing the years of my life.

Fifteen, there's still time for you,
Time to buy and time to lose
yourself within a morning star.
Fifteen, I'm alright with you,
Fifteen,
There's never a wish better than this,
When you only got a hundred years to live.

How the time goes by,
Suddenly, you're wise,
another blink of an eye,
sixty-seven is gone.
The sun is getting high,
we're moving on

I'm Ninety-Nine for a moment,
Dying for just another moment
and I'm just dreaming,
Counting the ways to where you are.

Fifteen, there's still time for you,
Twenty-Two, I feel her, too.
Thirty-Three, you're on your way,
Every day's a new day...
Ooooooh, Ooooooh, Oooooooooh, Oooh.

Fifteen, there's still time for you.
Time to buy and time to choose.
Hey, fifteen.
There's never a wish better than this,
when you only got a hundred years to live.

Please pray for me ...

2006-09-24T17:35:00.000-04:00

There are a few more things I have to say. For myself, for him, for closure, for healing ... we're seeing each other Wed evening, maybe Thurs.

Pray that I say everything, that I say nothing I shall regret, that I say everything I shall regret not saying. That everything is ... ok. So far as it can be.

Pray that the conversation goes the direction *I* want it to. I know, that sounds selfish; but actually, it's only just and fair ... to both of us I basically know his end of things, but I really don't think he has heard mine. Not through lack of listening - he is a good man, and patient. But he hears things through his own thoughts, which are pointing in a different direction. I want him to understand. He was trying to do the right thing ... but he did it in a wrong way, a hurtful way, and ... dare I say this of someone 9 years older than me? ... an immature way.

What hurts most is that it doesn't seem to hurt him. I guess because he is in control of the situation ... I mean, how long did he have for self reflection and prayer and so forth before he made this decision? Whereas it was sprung on me completely out of the blue ... and I, not included in the decision at all. (This is one of the things I intend to address.) I wonder, does he even still love me?

Just ... pray this heals, rather than causes further pain. I know it will hurt ... but healing hurts sometimes, doesn't it?

Thank you for your prayers. I love you both. I'm sorry I haven't been functioning lately ... I feel like I've been absorbing all your friendship and giving nothing in return.

This will hurt awhile. I can't believe how many things remind me of him, of how it used to be. But it comforts me to know what I'm going through is not unique to myself - that it is, in fact, normal, and [i]ok[/i]. It's ok to cry. I *have* been hurt; I *will* heal; and someday I will be able to love a man other than Nathan.

I pray that God may use this suffering, that He may purify it ... that I may grow holier through it, closer to being the woman He wishes me to be, and carry this cross in the path of Christ.

Why does it hurt so much ...

2006-09-23T20:06:00.000-04:00

Passing 422 on the way home from school, and seeing a sign for New Castle? Or crossing the road that's a scenic longcut to the Atrium?

I trust in God. He holds my heart in His hands. He knows what will truly make me happy, and He has a plan for my life.

But that doesn't stop it hurting. No more than knowing one you love has gone to heaven stems to feeling of personal loss.

Because right now ... I don't want anything else.

It's all over ... all but the grieving.

Ramblings of a fevered mind

2006-09-15T08:58:00.000-04:00

I'm sick. Last night I think I even had a fever; now I'm just struggling with horrid congestion.

I got up yesterday at 5:30 am, after having about five hours of sleep ... for no reason. I'm wondering if that had something to do with my falling so hard, so fast. I know I haven't been getting enough sleep lately ... I'm always so tired.

Waiting for an email that isn't coming. Wondering if it's ok to pray for it, or if that's ... silly.

You know how your thoughts are a little twisted when you're sick? They don't make any sense, they keep you from getting to sleep? All I've been able to think about at nights is Native American Literature. Don't laugh - it's not very pleasant. We're reading something called The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven.

Don't ever read it.

Horribly dark, hopeless; full of alcohol and drugs and sex.

Now I have to watch some sort of movie based off of it. That should be fun.

And yes, I realize this whole post sounds negative. I'm sorry. I'm so ... wounded. And now I'm sick.

I wonder if that email would lift my day. I wish it would come.

2006-09-07T20:08:00.000-04:00

I feel like I've been pushed away. Like in those weeks he was sort of slipping away from me, out of my arms, and then I was pushed.

We haven't held hands. We haven't kissed goodnight. Nothing, nothing since the conversation. I thought maybe it was my imagination, or just a coincidence; that I had imagined when I reached to take his hand he didn't open his fingers, and so I pulled back away; that he didn't walk close to me as we went to see his parents knew house; that there was no rhyme or reason, it just was, and would pass.

I never knew how much you could ache for these things. How much hurt can be caused simply by not receiving them. Especially when they are the outer sign of inner workings.

I knew that night I had to ask him to clarify, to summarize ... because I heard and understood all he said, I thought, but why? Why in the world had he said it? It didn't make sense.

He was upset that I brought it up again, out of the blue. (Though, out of the blue was how it came to me, much more so - and I was left to worry for two weeks.) But he tried to explain, though I don't think he understood what I was asking. I caught a phrase - 'stepping back'. And my heart lurched. It was almost mentioned just in passing; but I knew I had to come back to it. And I did - I asked, how does this apply to us now?

We need to 'give each other space'. Maybe permanently, maybe not - we'll see.

What happened??? God, what happened? How can I have been so perfectly happy, felt so blessed and content, that things were as God wanted them, as I wanted them ... and suddenly he needs space? What does that even mean? How can 'we' step back when, to me, everything was right and wonderful?

I want nothing more than to cry on his shoulder, in his arms. For him to hold me, to kiss my hair, to tell me he loves me. That he still loves me, no less than he has. For him to know that I am hurting. I don't know if I should tell him, how much I should tell him. I wish I could cry ... cry in front of him like I do when I'm alone - sobbing, aching. Such a selfish wish, but God, I want it so badly! I want him to know his actions affect me; that he may control this state of things, but he can't control how I feel; that I am NOT OK, no matter how many times I nod, smile, or say 'yes'. Part of me is incredibly angry he can't see it by himself; but I know that is an unrealistic expectation.

And I am so afraid. Because he said things, before it was all clear to me what he meant, during the initial conversation - things like, if I ever met someone, at school or through the Newman center or such, who was more aligned with my dreams, my goals, he wouldn't want to stand in my way - he wanted me to feel free to pursue that. When he said it then, I sort of blinked. Why would I even be looking at other guys like that? I thought it was about me, through his eyes - that he was concerned that I might feel trapped, that he wanted the best for me.

But now I see it was about him. Maybe not consciously - I know he has no one else - but it was about him. He needs to step back ... the idea didn't even occur to me. What if ... what if he finds someone, more aligned with his dreams and goals, that would make him happier?

That ... that I could not bear. There are times I already feel like I'm going to die ... if that should happen ...

I miss him so much. And even when I'm with him, I wonder now if I'm with the part of him I miss - if that part has been pulled away from me. Maybe permanently ...

I can't live in between like this.

2006-09-05T22:40:00.000-04:00

Is it true that doubt is worse than certainty - that the not knowing, but suspecting is hardest to bear?

I don't know.

An experiment ...

2006-08-30T11:34:00.000-04:00

This is for Gen and Keesa because they don't have xanga, and therefore can't see my protected posts there.

While he was in one of the cities, there came a man full of leprosy; and when he saw Jesus, he fell on his face and besought him, "Lord, if you will, you can make me clean." And he stretched out his hand, and touched him, saying, "I will; be clean."And immediately the leprosy left him.
Luke 5: 12-13

2006-08-24T13:01:00.000-04:00

Did I ever tell yinz all I was proposed to?

*nods solemnly*

I'm afraid it wasn't all that romantic. Perhaps it would have been, at least a little, if the young man happened to be my age. As it was, he was a good four years younger than me, and not my type. At all.

Still, while lacking in romance, it was certainly a very interesting circumstance, and so I shall relate it to you.

There is a young man at my place of work who is ... well, he's rather a flirt. We older girls like to laugh at him. He is rather laughable. One of his favorite ways to avoid *real* work is to bag for us up front. And, since he considers himself a bit of a lady's man, he enjoys telling whoever he may be with at the moment that they're his favorite cashier. If two cashiers should be within hearing, he will tell the one this behind her back, while signaling frantically to the other that it's really her he most likes. (Of course.)

Amusing.

Well, one day I was feeling rather mean, so I refused to listen to him. I told him I didn't believe him, and that he was a liar. His favoritism was too easily given. He protested rather loudly; then, when I showed no signs of listening, promptly went down on one knee.

I said no.

He stuck his head in a plastic bag. Aaaah, how tragic! But he didn't actually go through with it, despite the fact that I promised to bring black roses to his funeral.

The rest of the day he went to great lengths to prove his love for me, even going so far as to pick up a dirty, half-deflated balloon from the parking lot and write 'I love you' on it. (Said balloon was lying, popped, in the middle of the floor shortly thereafter.) He asked me if I'd marry him if he punched through a cardboard box. I didn't say yes or no, but in the end it didn't matter, as he failed rather miserably.

The next day he took another cashier out on a date over lunch.

"Don't worry," he reassured me. "I want to date Shayla, but I want to marry you."

He even offered to quit highschool for me, being quite sure that we could both live on what I made at Friedman's.

Such love!

But I am afraid my answer was still 'no'.

What can I say? I'm just a heartbreaker.

2 months 10 days

2006-08-21T14:17:00.000-04:00

Until NaNoWriMo.

Wow.

I guess I should start outlining ...

2006-08-11T18:43:00.000-04:00

I have just discovered a beautiful person.

I knew I liked her already, but ... she just quit work because of school, and work is how I knew her. The past few days I found myself talking to her more often, and felt something clicking. Not quite a 'bosom friends' kind of click; but perhaps 'kindred spirits', at least on some levels. :) A very cool person - a very weird and funny person - a lovely young woman.

She gave me her aim and xanga yesterday, which was her last day - gave it without my asking, which made me very happy. :) So I gave her mine as well. We haven't talked on aim, but she commented on my xanga. :D

I was reading some of her old posts the other day, and it was interesting - I got to see levels to her personality I never had before.

When you go deeper, especially into the thoughts of one who is always cheerful and happy for others, you will often go darker. Not always in a bad way. In one post, pain. In another, a deeper glimpse of her spirituality. In another, love and compassion for a stranger. In another, plain ol' silliness.

It's very awesome.

I know I would never have discovered this soul if she weren't leaving; but I am sad that I just discover her now.

We may never become close friends. I doubt she feels the same way about me as I do her. But still I feel blessed - blessed that she is, and blessed that I know it.

Dragonfruit?

2006-07-28T14:56:00.000-04:00

Sounds exotic, and a bit fake. Like something out of a fantasy world.

But it's not. It really, truly exists! And that excites me. :)

I was first introduced to dragonfruit by water. Vitaminwater, to be exact - overpriced H2O that's flavored and drenched with vitamins. The vitamin C flavor is dragonfruit ... and it tasted incredible. But I didn't think much about it beyond that.

Well, yesterday I discovered the SoBe beverages were on sale, so on my break I meandered back to see what we had. One of the flavors was ... dragonfruit. None of the others really appealed to me, so I bought it.

It was delicious.

Today is payday. I have off work, so instead I went shopping. I bought another SoBe dragonfruit beverage - it sits beside me as I type this, looking very wise and exotic, and rather self-satisfied, I'm afraid. It seems blissfully unaware that it is slowly draining away ...

It was earlier sampled by my mother, who also declared it delicious and sweet - but doubted that such a thing as 'dragonfruit' existed. I immediately signed online to find out.

Ah, the wonders of Google. :)

Here is what I discovered.

It grows on cacti. Though dragonfruit is, by far, it's coolest name, it's also known as thang loy, pitaya or strawberry pear. They are often a pinkish red color, with greenish spikes, but there are yellow varieties as well. It can be made into wine, flavor ice cream, and its flowers steeped to make tea (yay for Stash!!. It can be eaten out of the hand or with a spoon, or served in pastries. Some people compare it to the kiwi - which, by the by, is my favorite fruit. It certainly looks a little like it once it's cut open, with all those dark little seeds.

Like this:

Now, I wonder if I could convince Friedman's to order some ... Probably not. But from now on, I'm keeping my eyes peeled.

Because I am officially enchanted by dragonfruit. :)

I call it War.

2006-07-24T12:12:00.000-04:00

Is chemical warfare immoral?

I hope St. Francis doesn't disown me. *sigh* He is, after all, my patron saint - maybe he'll understand.

I went out to the mailbox this morning to deliver a letter to my friend in MI, and as usual stopped to check on my roses on the way back. What should I find but a whole HORDE of Japanese beetles on two of them, chomping down on those leaves they hadn't already peppered with holes.

UGH.

And ... well, quite a few of them were making MORE beetles. I could just hear them laughing amongst themselves, chuckling: huh, she thinks WE'RE bad? Just wait til next year when there's twice as many!

That was unacceptable.

I ran inside and got my rose spray.

Prevents black spot, it says. Cures mildew and rust. It also says it kills insects on contact.

Bwahaha.

I sprayed my roses thoroughly. I took the nozzle and pointed it directly at each beetle, and inch away from it's head, and - ssscccccccchhh!!!!

Ha. That would show them. Die, beetles, DIE!!!

Except they didn't die. Some of them looked rather disturbed, as if being sprayed by a high velocity stream of stuff was out of the usual course of things. They wandered around, bemused. But they were still wandering. Not falling over dead.

That does it.

I went inside and grabbed an old, empty coffee can to fill with soapy water. (I heard to use soapy water somewhere; I can't remember if it was for Japanese beetles or some other pest, but I figured it couldn't hurt.) Then I proceeded to search the garage for my gardening gloves. I wasn't going to TOUCH those things after I sprayed them. (Ok, so I wouldn't have touched them if I hadn't sprayed them either. Japanese beetles and caterpillars are two crawlies I cannot stand.)

No gloves anywhere. Instead I grabbed knitted pair meant to cover small hands in winter. And, armed with my soapy water, out I went.

To my delight, I found that quite a few of them had actually died. However, they were still perched on my rose bushes - and a third or so of them were still living in good health. Gingerly, I reached out with a gloved hand and took one off a leaf ...

It grabbed on. And it wouldn't let go. I shook my hand - it clung obstinately. I could FEEL it, through the glove ...

I panicked.

I think I lost that one in the grass somewhere. It lives still. Rats.

It took me two more beetles to realize the knitted glove was the perfect anchor for buggy feet; but I soon abandoned it.

The dead ones I just flicked off. The living ones ... Halfway through I realized if you shook the canes, they FELL off, all by themselves. Much easier that way. Because I cannot stand the feel of six pesty fingers clinging to my own. *shudder*

Here's to hoping my neighbors didn't hear me yelping.

And DEATH to the beetles!!!

So tired ...

2006-07-15T11:23:00.000-04:00

I don't know what's wrong with me lately. I must not be getting enough vitamins ... I'm sure I've been getting enough sleep. Perhaps it's not the amount of sleep I get, but the hours I choose to sleep during ... I don't know.

H'anyway. I really hope we stay home today. Don't get me wrong - pig roasts with square dancing are fun, especially when attended be people you haven't seen in awhile. But it's so hot a muggy, and I'm tired, and I have so much to do at home ...

Meh. I hate feeling so lethargic. Maybe I should take a dip in the pool.

Something in the Water?

2006-06-27T15:34:00.000-04:00

Must be. What else could explain the fact that six Inkies have recently become involved in romantic relationships? Two sets with each other, no less!! And perhaps there are even more that I'm not aware of ...

And yet the dating thread seems to have rather expired. Strange. Ah well ... it does that periodically, doesn't it?

May God lead us in our lives, and Christ be the center of all our human relationships.

(Yes, this is a double-post on here and xanga. You'll live. :-P )

Allow me to proscrastinate a few moments.

2006-04-21T12:00:00.000-04:00

Here I sit in Bailey Library, taking a break from scouring the journal section for the second time in a week. Meh. Why can't they arrange them by subject? Would it be so terribly hard?!

For those of you who may be wondering exactly why I'm scouring the journal section of the library, it is because I'm researching. *nods importantly* ;) See, there's this paper I have to write - I have to pick a current issue/concern/debate in my major, pick a side, and explain and defend it. I'm 95% of the way to choosing online publishing - though that's rather a broad subject. I'll have to narrow it down.

I have discovered something interesting. There are hardly any journals for writers in this library. Not hardly any journals in general - just none here. *glares* So I've been picking up anything to do with English and picking through the contents for anything I can use.

And I actually found something! True, it is only one article, and there is only one more aisle to go, so the likelihood of my finding many more is slim. But still ... :)

That one find, however, is not quite enough to soothe my irritation. I am annoyed. And I forgot my lunch today.

Don't laugh. I crouched down for about five or ten minutes looking through stuff on a low shelf, and when I stood up I felt lik fainting. Twice. I had visions of myself lying in the aisle, among the dusty journals where no one ever comes, missing my bio class ... *grin*

Ah well. Nothing I'm not used to. And, despite the decided lack of useful material for this particular project, looking through this stuff is kind of fun. It makes me feel brainy. :)

And now, back to the old grind ...

2006-04-08T15:44:00.000-04:00

A new rose has been named:

April 2nd came and went rather uneventfully. I barely realized it was there until it passed. But these week has been very reminiscent for me ... though not in a painful way. In fact, to my surprise, I found it almost joyful.

Grief is a funny thing ... every now and then something happens. An article; a passage in a book; something someone says ... and suddenly it hurts once more. But this week wasn't like that.

The rose is named after JP2. Something jumped inside of me when I first saw it. You know me - I love my roses. To death. Literally, I'm afraid. I have no idea how resistant this rose is to disease not to mention gardener's incompetence. And currently it's rather expensive. But perhaps, someday ...

Something happened Friday. I was in the chapel, spending some time in prayer before heading to my last class for the day. There was also an elderly couple there - the woman sat across from me. She was rummaging around her purse, looking for something ... and suddenly handed me a rosary.

I smiled, and thanked her, slightly bemused. I was, in fact, saying a rosary - but how could she know that? I found my place on the beads and continued praying ... when suddenly the fragrance of roses reach my nostrils.

The beads were scented! And as I looked down at them, where they lay in my hand, I saw it was a rosary from Rome - from the 2000 Jubilee.

I couldn't believe it. It all pulled together. The end of a week reflecting on John Paul II's passing, on how my life had changed since seeing him in Rome that year ... and there it was in my hand.

I got to the fourth decade; then I had to leave. I stood up and handed the woman back her rosary: but she didn't take it.

"Keep it with you," she whispered. "Always keep it with you."

I smiled and thanked her again, and left the chapel, saying a prayer for she and her husband. I walked down the steps, rounded the corner - and found myself facing a tree in full bloom, bursting with white flowers where the branches had been bare the day before.

Somehow, that very nearly made me cry.

God takes care of us so intimately. He gives us such little things - things so little that only He knows how important they are.

I think it's time I read Deus et Caritas. I've heard Benedict XVI is an amazing writer ... it's time to see for myself. :)

Liz ... Gen ... are we not so blessed?!

I must need to get more shoes ...

2006-04-04T13:14:00.000-04:00

...because I am running out of shoeboxes.

I was looking for my dear cousin Theresa's address the other day, because I was mailing her some pictures she left at my house. Perhaps I could have found it in my mom's address book; but I thought it would be simpler just to find the letters we've exchanged over the past years (few though those may be in comparison to some.)

As I dug through the drawer I store my letters in, I realized something - it was way too full. I needed to take some out.

Now, I have long had a shoebox for Genevieve and Regina, for the Fruzen files take up QUITE alot of room. As for Keesa, our communication does not yet amount to that much; but as I expect it to, she already has a shoebox reserved in her name. ;) (Though it shares space with letters from Lyn's sisters.)

I also have another shoebox, that contains envelopes addressed from many people, but all of whom attended one school: Immaculate Conception Academy in RI. These letters live with my teas. (Weird to think what it would have been like if I'd gone there ... but we moved instead. *shakes head thoughtfull* How things change ... I wish I hadn't lost contact with all those lovely girls, though. :( )

I realized there were three collections of letters that were taking up a lot of room in my drawer, and could be moved to their own safe haven. The first was letters from my Aunt Jan - but as we no longer write, I decided they could stay where they were. The letters from Sarah (the amount of which, btw, puts all my other correspondence to shame ... you guys are outwritten by a ten year old! :P ); and those from my sister-friends in MI, however, are still growing. Both are already far to big to occupy a shared space with anything else.

But I only have one more shoebox that's empty!! Two others are floating about; but one (literally falling apart at the corners) is stuffed past the brim with pictures, while the other holds my Lord of the Rings paraphenalia that is, slowly but surely, finding its way off my closet doors. (It was funny. I woke up a month or so ago and realized, to my surprise, that LotR was EVERYWHERE - and that I had ceased to even look at it long ago. I am no longer as obsessed as I once was ... it was time for it to start coming down. Bit by bit, so that my walls don't suddenly appear completely empty.)

So. What is left for me to do but buy another pair of shoes?

Hanging by a Moment

2006-03-25T11:46:00.000-05:00

A Lifehouse song. ;)

Desperate for changing
Starving for truth
I'm closer than where I started
Chasing after you

I'm falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I've held onto
I'm standing here until you make me move
Just hanging by a moment here with you

Forgetting all I'm lacking
Completely incomplete
I'll take your invitation
You take all of me

I'm falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I've held onto
I'm standing here until you make me move
Just hanging by a moment here with you
I'm living for the only thing I know
I'm running and not quite sure where to go
And I don't know what I'm diving into
Just hanging by a moment here with you

There's nothing else to lose
There's nothing else to find
There is nothing else
That could change my mind
There is nothing else

Desperate for changing
Starving for truth
I'm closer than where I started
Chasing after you

I'm falling even more in love with you
Letting go of all I've held onto
I'm standing here until you make me move
Just hanging by a moment here with you
I'm living for the only thing I know
I'm running and not quite sure where to go
And I don't know what I'm diving into
Just hanging by a moment here with you

Lost

2006-03-22T21:17:00.000-05:00

I thought God had said yes.

For so long I hoped, prayed, longed … for so long. My heart ached from being stretched so far. And I knew I wasn’t the only one.

I watched and waited, holding my breath each time – but never really expecting what I wanted to happen. Because it never did.

Until last year.

It wasn’t complete – but it was beautiful. It hurt that I was now the one that was far away; but after November, I thought life couldn’t be more perfect.

This was the way it was supposed to be, because it was always supposed to be this way.

I thought God had said yes this time.

I don’t know what to think or feel. I would fear that the inevitable will happen … except it’s inevitable. I’m not afraid. I just hurt. I’m just … angry. Upset. Dreading everything. It doesn’t seem real.

I am so tired of watching those I love going through so much pain. I am so tired of watching a man be punished for trying to support his family. I’m just tired.

I remember last year sometime watching a slideshow, seeing the familiar and beloved faces flash past, and thinking: they won’t know me. The little ones – they won’t remember who I am. But last November, those fears were dispelled. It was all going to be ok.

And now … Now my yes has been stolen from me. By someone so lacking in morals he fires a man who does his job – a man who has nine children to support – and refuses to even pay him severance until he is forced to.

Perhaps I should be praying for a miracle. But it feels like such a selfish thing to do right now.

And yet Pennsylvania will never have been so empty.

Nutty's new avatar

2006-03-15T15:40:00.000-05:00

Couldn't resist posting this here too. *grin* He's probably going to murder me ...

The following discussion took place in the Signature and Avatar thread on the Inkspiller.

Take note: The following post contains insanity. Read with caution. And be aware that if it seems like Tobie is deliberately trying to drive Nutty up a wall ... well, she is. ;)

The picture in question:

Nutty: New look.

Tobie: Cool avvy.

Bob(who is a girl): Sew-weeeet. ^_^ Love the big airplane thing on the bird's nose. ;)

Nutty: The "big airplane thing" is an F-15 Eagle. And "the eagle's nose" is properly called a beak. The F-15 is actually in front of the bald eagle. ^_^

Tobie: Yes, who knew how good birds were at balancing things?

Nutty: Read my above posts, Assistant Commander Rho Falcon.

Tobie: But I like the idea of it balancing the airplane on its nose. ^_^ Besides, if it's not, that's some BIG eagle!

Nutty: It is two different photos combined into one, my dear Rho Falcon.

Tobie: But ... but ... what if the pilot looks into his rearview mirror? He'll have a heartattack!!

Nutty: ... They are two different photographs. Photoshopped into one.

Tobie: But what if the eagle EATS the airplane?!?!

Nutty: The eagle in the photograph is nowhere near the airplane in the photograph. <_<

Tobie: But that would make it even MORE HUGE.

Nutty: Oh, be quiet. The photo of the F-15 was shrunk so it would appear smaller in comparison with the bald eagle.

Tobie: *groans* You mean you shrunk the pilot and his F-15?! Nutty ... what if that man has a family? What if your dad came home one night only as big as your little finger? How would you feel?

Nutty: The PHOTOGRAPH was shrunk, for heaven's sake!!! >:-(

End conversation.

It was all too easy. ;)

Watermark

2006-03-14T19:13:00.000-05:00

I found out something that surprised me awhile ago. I'm getting my Grandmom's piano. It was a revelation that surprised me, and touched me; and I found myself thinking about it as I played Enya's songs the other day.

I'm the only one who would play it, I guess. :) I'm almost positive I'm the only grandchild who does, and I don't know of anyone else who plays besides my dad. (And that on very infrequent occasions, anymore.)

It's a beautiful instrument - one of those lovely, ancient pianos that have stories to tell. We have one of those ourselves: an old player piano with only one pedal (and a footprint in the carpet beneath it - lol). Of course, ours is horribly out of tune, unlike Grandmom's.

I remember every time I sat down at that piano, I would hear about that. About how the man came to tune the piano for them, and told them it wouldn't need to be tuned again for years and years. But how they would have to replace the felt on the hammers because the piano was so old - and how that would be more expensive.

I remember. My Grandmom would tell me every time I played; and now the story has fallen to Granddad.

I found out by accident. I guess it was assumed that I already knew. Mom and Dad were talking about it, and wondering where we would put it. You see, it's a very heavy piano, and the only place we'd have room for it would be downstairs - but even with the door to the basement from the outside, getting it down there would be difficult. So would carting it up to my room. (*grin*) Well, then - perhaps we could move our current piano downstairs when the time comes, seeing as it's lighter (though still heavy in it's own right). Or ... perhaps we could sell it.

I was horrified. Sell my baby?! I love our piano!! It has such a beautiful, rich tone - even if it is out of tune. It's a lovely, wonderful instrument, even if it does have only one pedal. Enya's music sounds so perfect on it; my fingers know their way around it with my eyes closed.

I don't think we're getting rid of my baby. :)

But I was going over the conversation in my head as I played. Enya's Watermark - such a beautiful, moving song. I thought about Grandmom's piano. I'm the only one who plays it anymore. But I remember stories of how she'd always play, and sing, and not want anyone else to sing while she was playing. :) And I remember her playing; or my playing, and her listening. And I remember when she couldn't play anymore because of her hands - how they'd shake with Parkinsons. I remember the expression in her eyes when she tried to play Heart and Soul with me as we sat on the bench side by side - and her fingers simply couldn't stay still enough to hit the keys.

And suddenly I missed my Grandmom. She felt so close - like our souls could reach out and touch each other. In a sense, I missed her because of that very closeness; because I know she still loves and prays for me, but she isn't here anymore.

Her name was Mercedes ... isn't that such a beautiful name?

So. There's my serious, ponderful post for the week. :)

Odds and Ends

2006-03-13T13:45:00.000-05:00

My cousin and I were fooling around with her picture phone last night, and it reminded me of this one. 'Twas taken in late December - or early January. Can't remember which for sure. But it was after we went to see King Kong. :)

I almost posted the one of me writing, too, but I think most of you have seen that one. :) I think this one's an especially good one of Liz. Kim doesn't look half bad either. ;D

Also, in case anyone was wondering - I got a Nohari window. :-D Aren't I brave? Now, are all 15 of you who posted on the Johari gonna do this one too? :-P It layeth here:

Nohari

But if you do that one, make sure you do the positive one too. Please. :)

Signing out,

--Rho Falcon

(Thanks bro. ;) )

Hehe.

2006-03-11T12:57:00.000-05:00

Ok. No, this is not the post I meant to make the other day - but I decided I wanted more people than just Noah to do this thinger, and I thought I might get more people if I posted it here as well as on xanga. :-D Yes, it is one of those stupid things that waste your time - like those surveys you get in the email over and over again and fill out each time you get 'em. Just do it anyway. ;)

Click here!

EDIT: I made a new one. The words I chose at the beginning weren't showing up. But don't worry, I transfered everyone else's - and did so honestly. Promise. *grin*

2006-03-08T09:05:00.000-05:00

"It was when I was happiest that I longed most...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty came from." -Till we have Faces

No. I am not going to post on that topic ... I am far too lacking in eloquence, and Lewis and Tolkien have delved much farther than I could ever reach, anyway. But I saw Mara's excellent and inspiring list of quotes on her xanga, and this was among them; and it sent a lovely thrill down my back. :) Maybe I should reread that book ... or Surprised by Joy ... or the Letters of JRR Tolkien. Or Leaf by Niggle, which I haven't started on since finishing On Fairy Stories.

This was not what I signed on to post. I suppose I shall have to start a new one ...

Lion

2006-02-27T11:55:00.000-05:00

There have been several blog posts swirling around in my mind and bumping into each other, so I decided I should start getting some of them out. :) I will begin with the oldest - which is really nothing more than a song I've been wanting to share with you.

I love this song. I can't really say it's my favorite, because ... well, I say that about a LOT of songs. *grin* But it's incredibly beautiful. I love to sing along with it, except half the time I end up choking up and can't finish. *laughs* It just ... I dunno. It just fits, on pretty much every level.

It's a love song. And one of the things Liz and I talk about is, as women, being able to FALL IN LOVE with Christ. (We don't know how this works with guys. *grin*) He is the Lover of our souls; but that's a matter for another post. (One of those banging around upstairs ... Liz and Keesa, make sure I write it, else I know I won't.)

And the words apply so directly to my own life, especially the refrain. God is so wonderful, so beautiful - so terrifyingly beautiful.

But the song speaks for itself, so I'll stop trying to explain it. :)

The artist is Rebecca St. James; the album is one of songs by Christian artists, inspired by Narnia. And I meant to show it to Liz on Thursday (fits what we talk about, eh V?), and I know Gen wanted to hear it (not that she's been online lately), so - without further ramblings from myself, here it is. :)

Mysterious
That's what I call you
I'm curious
About you

I'm scared and I'm not sure that you are safe
But your eyes seem to say that you are good

This is not a dream that I'm living
This is just a world of your own
You took me from all that I knew
Showed me how it feels to hope
With you with me, facing tomorrow
Together, I can learn to fly
Feels like I'm living in the lion's mouth
But the lion is an angel

Wise eyes
You see the core of me
Your gentleness
Melts me

And now I know that words cannot describe
The power that I feel when I'm with you

This is not a dream that I'm living
This is just a world of your own
You took me from all that I knew
Showed me how it feels to hope
With you with me, facing tomorrow
Together, I can learn to fly
Feels like I'm living in the lion's mouth
But the lion is

Peace and power
Love forever
Who am I to stand before you
I am speechless
But in my weakness
You are here and all is well

You took me from all that I knew
Showed me how it feels to hope
With you with me, facing tomorrow
Together, I can learn to fly
Feels like I'm living in the lion's mouth
But the lion is an angel

Is an angel

And now ...

2006-02-18T16:24:00.000-05:00

...time for an unserious post. Today's random topic shall be: Hair. More precisely - should I cut it?

It's beginning to get rather longish. (See here.) The ends need to be trimmed, for certain - but should I actually get it cut?

On the one hand, part of me wants to play around and fiddle with a shorter style. It could be curled and made to do all sorts of fun things. However, part of me wants to have long, beautiful hair - and the sensible side of me knows that for a period of about seven days, starting two days after I get it cut, I will absolutely hate myself. It will come out alright in the end; but the sad truth is I CANNOT style hair. I can't blow dry it, I can't work my curling iron; I just can't.

Whenever I get a haircut, I watch what the stylist does VERY carefully. And I think: Hey! I can do that! I'll repeat the exact same process when I get home.

Somehow it never quite works.

I have some time to make this decision. Either way I'm waiting til spring: Spring, when everything is fresh and new, and my hair can also be fresh and new, just in time so that it won't cling to a sweaty neck during the heat of summer.

But it's good to be prepared, and so I'm contemplating this decision now.

The Two Universities

2006-02-07T19:27:00.000-05:00

“Students for Life will go to the Abortion Clinic in Pittsburgh after the 6am Mass”

“Solidarity: Students for Human Rights”

“All Campus Praise and Worship, every Tuesday”

“The Rosary in Latin, Mondays”

These are just a few of the fliers that crowded the bulletin board, literally overflowing as they competed for space. I recognized the location – a place on the campus of Franciscan University of Steubenville. How could I not recognize it?

The picture of this board was on the cover of ‘Franciscan Way’. I have no idea why this came in the mail today – but it did. And as I stared at those announcements, I couldn’t help but compare them to those found on my school’s boards.

“The Art of Kissing – Volunteers Needed!”

“Mayhem Poets” (I read the article after the event. It was essentially rap, and glorified the things rap typically does.)

And my absolute favorite: “Sex 101” (I won’t go into details about the display for this one. I tried not to look at it.)

These are a few – just a few – of the events my lovely school has hosted.

Something weird started to burn in the pit of my stomach.

Oh God. Where have you sent me? And why – why? Is there even a reason? Surely you didn’t plan all this … You knew all along, and I know you’ve brought good from it. But Lord, did you always want me here?

Why am I not in Ohio right now?

Something else came in the mail today. The envelope was from Slippery Rock University. I had absolutely no idea what it could be – though I noticed later the Philosophy Department stamp. That was (of course) exactly where it was from. Inside was a letter beginning thus:

“Our philosophy department is impressed by our performance in your recent philosophy course. [That would be Ethics. *grin*] We invite you to consider the value of philosophy as either a first or a second major.”

It then goes on to explain how they custom tailor philosophy second majors to match your first major, how beneficial it is, please contact us, etc, etc. It is signed by the chairman of the department, Dr. Findler – who happened to be my Ethics professor.

All very nice, yes?

And there – down there, in the margin – is a very familiar scribble. Where do I recognize it from…? Ah yes!

I remember once when the electricity went out across the entire campus. It was interesting. Scott got stuck in the elevator; Sam (a girl Sam) was in the restroom when it happened; and we sat in the dark during Ethics. And Kim muttered to those in her immediate vicinity: “Oh great, it’s dark. We won’t be able to read his handwriting … oh wait. Never mind.”

And we all laughed. Because Dr. Findler has the worst handwriting I have ever seen in my life. (Yes, I do mean worse than mine.) If you didn’t listen very closely, you had no idea what the heck he was writing on the board.

Such a quirky guy, Dr. Findler. He was one of my favorite professors – weird sense of humor matched with a weird laugh, always had a MONGOUS McDonald’s drink with him … and he invited me to the philosophy department’s pizza party last semester, even though I wasn’t a major or minor.

And there, written at the bottom of this letter, was the note: “Hi! What’s up?”

It made me smile.

I remember when I was going to go to Franciscan. I was going to major in Theology … until I realized how very impractical this was, and I decided it would be my minor instead. I loved Theology. My senior religion course was my favorite subject during all of high school. The type of thought involved; the exploration of God’s creation, and getting to know more about God Himself – and realizing how very little I knew … it was all so fascinating, so beautiful.

Somehow I managed to forget it. I think I forgot a lot of things when I lost Franciscan. When I took my Ethics course, I found that it only scratched the surface; but if I tried, I could dig deeper, and find God. If I couldn’t find Him, it became dry, and I knew to doubt what I was hearing; but for the most part He was there, even if it skimmed the surface in a very secular sort of way.

And I remembered.

I think I’ll stop by and see Dr. Findler in the next few weeks. I saw Garrett the other day – he’s taking another course from him this semester, apparently. (Garrett was invited to the party too; but he didn’t come.)

I’m not sure how I was originally going to tie this in to the beginning, but it’s lost now. But as I skimmed through ‘Franciscan Way’, and wondered where I was, I remembered: God is here. He is here, too.

I knew that. I didn’t even forget it. But I still needed to be reminded.

I don’t know if this was where God planned for me to be, or if the wrong choices were made and I simply found my way here. But I do know one thing – God’s will for me is neither in the past nor in the future, but here and now. I can see good things that have come from this time – many good things, in fact. He will direct all things to His glory. And if my disappointment – or better yet, my joy – in being where I am now can be a part of that – and it can, it can! – then praise and glory to His Name.

Hehe … did anyone actually read this far? :)

End of the three page, pointless post.

Another Music Post!

2006-01-24T21:08:00.000-05:00

Last semester I had a concert I needed to go to for Music class. It was the Butler Symphony Orchestra – and it was beautiful. They played only three songs, one of which took up the entire half after the intermission. It was a symphony in all its movements.

The first piece just had the strings. The second brought in the rest of the orchestra. It was something by Mozart – a horn concerto. It was actually pretty amazing to watch the guy who played the lead horn. When he played, he would get tears in his eyes … it was very awesome to watch all the musicians, actually. It made me wish I played the piano better than I do.

But I didn’t quite slip into the music – not as much as I wanted to; not until the last piece after the intermission. This was wonderful! Of course, I wasn’t completely absorbed the entire time; but especially as the piece progressed, I had tears in my eyes, more than once. It was so beautiful, and I felt I understood – I was hearing it as it was meant to be heard. And somehow, the mood of it which changed and varied throughout – seemed so like life, my life in particular at that time (and this, as not much has changed!).

You know, when music is most beautiful, and you become completely lost inside it … sometimes you suddenly crest a peak, and there, waiting for you, is God. Art has fulfilled its purpose. It has brought you to Truth and Beauty at its Source. But the moment is so brief, and it leaves before you are aware of it – because how can you think when it is there? It leaves you breathless.

And this is what I pray for so earnestly, with my entire heart: that someday I can do this. If I can bring this moment for others but once in my writing, I think I might be satisfied.

One such of these moments occurred for me while listening. Many other times I still found God in the music, and realized often that I was praying (I think real art, in some forms, does that to you) – but no such crystal moment as that one. The funny thing is, I think – though I don’t know for sure – that I wouldn’t have liked this song on a recording. It may well have bored me; I certainly wouldn’t have fell in love with it. I had to put an effort into understanding it as it was, at least in the beginning; what if it hadn’t been a live performance? This is how music is meant to be heard.

By now you are probably bored with this post, but I will tell you nonetheless (muahaha) about another concert I went to for my music class – a Percussion Ensemble. That is exactly what it sounds like: a concert with no instruments but percussion. There wasn’t even a piano. (Which I have always been told is a percussion instrument; but last semester my textbook told me it isn’t. I wonder if it was wrong.)

I loved this concert!!! I was really excited about it, because it was so different; and I was determined to listen to all the pieces, even those of a kind I wouldn’t normally like, with an open and appreciative mind. (You have no idea how fruitful this is!)

They had a pretty wide variety of pieces, which was awesome, because I got to hear first hand a lot of things I’d recently learned in Music. For example, they had “African Sketches”, and I got to hear solid examples of things like “ostinatos”. :) They also had a piece by a Renaissance composer, which was adapted for percussion. (A xylophone, and three other instruments that weren’t xylophones but looked like them and sounded similar.)

They also played an atonal piece, which means it wasn’t in any set key. This made me very excited, because here was definitely a kind of music I would never choose to listen to. But you know what? It was awesome. And you know what else? You know how music builds to climaxes and has you sitting on the edge of your seat? These pieces all had that. In this atonal song, there was a point where there musicians were all improvising, each on a certain instrument, eyes riveted on the conductor, building to a crescendo – AH! I could hardly breathe. It was awesome! (And I found out by watching this part that there is actually techniques to playing a gong, and you can achieve very specific sounds. Silly me – I thought you just whacked it.)

The final piece they played was called … called … *sigh*I think it was called Ku-Ka something. I have it written down somewhere, in one of my notebooks from last semester. But anyway, it was a very difficult piece, both in terms of rhythm and the outright difficulty of playing it. So the conductor told us; so I could see. To give you some idea, they used pretty much all the percussion instruments they had (20 or so?), yet there were only four of them playing. (All seniors, I might add.) This was truly an amazing piece … I don’t think there was a moment when one of the musicians wasn’t playing at least two instruments at once.

And do you know what? I had one of those moments here too … the moment when the music sort of parts and falls away like a veil, and there is God.

Anyway. After the percussion there was a band with steel drums and stuff, which was awesome. They played a song from the Nutcracker! *grin*

A note that might interest some of you – the person in front of me hit a deer on the way to the percussion concert. It was kind of surreal. Everything is dark, and then on the edge of your vision comes this shadow. You know what it is, and what’s going to happen, but it doesn’t really click. And suddenly a deer is framed in the headlights, and there is a loud WHUMP, and the deer goes flying – literally. Its feet left the ground and it did a backflip to fade into the darkness. Out of the corner of your eye you see it roll down a snowbank into someone’s yard, and you feel just a tad bit sick to your stomach – not to mention nervously grateful it didn’t wait an extra five seconds to cross.

Kind of creepy. I drove pretty slowly after that.

Randomness

2006-01-19T16:50:00.000-05:00

In my attempts to procrastinate filling out job applications (which probably take more effort than filling out the applications, in some cases), I am typing this post. In it I will experiment with posting a picture, which is something I have never done with blogger. If it works I will probably delete it. *grin*

There. We shall see ... or not see, as the case may be. The infamous Will Turner and Commodore Norrington at their best. :) (And for the few of you who haven't seen this one yet ... yes, that is me and Liz. ;) )

Anyway. Today was the third day of school. Weird how very quickly you slip back into things! Tuesday I was already missing vacation; but now I'm back in the flow, save for this whole calculus issue. I passed one of my professors from last semester in the hall this morning - he recognized me and smiled. It made me happy. :)

Speaking of last semester ... I've been intending to type up several posts summarizing what happened in it. *sigh* I'm afraid I've lost much of what I was going to say by now ... but some of it shall be forthcoming. (Eventually. *grin*)

Ah well. Enough of this pointless post.

2006-01-14T11:18:00.000-05:00

Well, I updated the links on my sidebar. For one, Keesa's link is now to her site rather than her blog - though I realized it was never to her blog in the first place. It led straight to the livejournal homepage ... *slaps self* Also, the Inkies link now leads to the NEW site (:P at Noah), Eid's has been changed to the living blog rather than the dead one, and I've added a few more to the list.

Hehe. Just thought y'all would want to know. :D

In memoriam

2006-01-13T10:04:00.000-05:00

Some of you may know that Lyra is no longer in use. I wouldn't say she is dead - that sounds rather gruesome. But some time ago the little silver tip that her leads came through fell off ... and she has been retired since.

It was a hard blow to lose Lyra. She still lay in a place of honor on my bedside table - but no more does her barrel click; no more do her leads scrawl illegibly on the page. It's depressing.

Instead I turned to Orpheus. He who once was dedicated to saving me from the Hades of Seton Highschool now turned to the much more noble worlds of my own creation. He served me well - he traveled everywhere with me, every ready to record my words. He even placed himself in the service of others, and valiantly offered his pencilness to my father, who wished to write down gas prices as we passed stations so he could record them on gasbuddy and gain points because this is his hobby. (Run-on sentence? Where?)

But his generousity was his downfall.

Orpheus was a blue pencil. His eraser cap and the clicker thingie on his side were green. My Dad did not know how to use the clicker thingie. He didn't realize you pushed it in and clicked it, and that made the little lead thingies come out, and the you wrote with the lead thingies on a piece of paper. He tried to use the clicker thingie in every way imaginable, but he couldn't imagine it clicking. And when I took Orpheus back from him to show him how it worked, to my horror I found the clicker cracked in the middle, buckling inwards.

This is going to sound rather pathetic ... but I cried. I tried not to, honestly. And I felt horrible, because I knew my dad felt bad for breaking Orpheus already - I didn't want him to look in the rearview mirror and see me crying. But there were some tears I couldn't stop from running down my face.

This, too, took place some time ago ... I must say I don't generally go around weeping over the demise of automatic pencils. But 1) Orpheus was very, very, very special, and 2) I think there were other things going on, so this was basically the last straw.

Anyway. I found that, if you were veeeery careful, and if you fiddled around with it in just the right way, you could still get Orpheus to work. But the crack grew, and spread; and last week it broke, and his clicker fell out.

Orpheus lays beside Lyra on my table, just as he always did - but no more shall he write.

I would also like to mention my beloved Den Daben, who has run out of ink. He is a very special pen. He will be missed.

Did you know I'm getting married soon?

2005-12-20T16:36:00.000-05:00

*grin*

No. Neither did I. Neither did anybody. But apparently, according to the all wise Micah – who is, after all in second grade! – I am. How soon he didn’t say, nor to whom, though I would have loved to know the latter!

Hopefully not that soon, was my response. Let me get through college first! To which his parents, as they hurried through the door, added – hopefully not for another ten years! I didn’t mention to them that that was a bit longer than I hoped for, but simply settled into the job of babysitting.

I don’t babysit Micah and Eli very often anymore. I guess they think I’ve aged a lot in one and a half years. Last time I sat with them working on a puzzle, when Micah randomly asked if was married yet. On receiving a rather startled ‘no’, he asked then when I would be married. I laughed and answered when I found the right guy.

Did I know any guys? Yes, a few. Well, how do you know when it’s the right guy? A long pause. Weeeeeeell ... you pray about it, and get to know him, and then one day he asks you to marry him. (Simplified version. *grin*) And then, as an afterthought: Except for you it’ll be the other way around; you get to ask the girl.

Micah gave a smile, and laughed, and said: “Awwww man! You’re lucky. I’ll be embarrassed.” Which made me laugh – because I think he’s right. And that pretty much ended the conversation, until later that night when he suddenly asked me for the last names of all the guys I know.

Are little boys mind readers? I wonder. How simple it all seems when he states it that way! “You’ll be married soon.”

(WARNING – disorganized thoughts ahead. Bits and pieces of various debris. Male people, if your instincts tell you not to read below this warning, I would suggest you don’t. ;) )

You know, it’s weird. This is the first Christmas that I absolutely have no idea what I want to get, because I really and truly don’t care. I know myself well enough to realize that I’ll be thrilled with whatever comes for me under the tree; but I don’t think I’d be at all disappointed if there was nothing. There’s almost always that one thing – the thing you really, really want, even if you get nothing else. But this year I can honestly say the one thing I’ve thought about is something I want to give.

I want to give Jesus a chaste heart. I want to be able to look on His face this Christmas and tell him with complete honesty: I love You best. You are the True Lover of my soul – You are the one thing my heart desires. Sometimes, sometimes … I feel so close. I feel that I truly do love Him as I should; but I know it’s only through His grace. The moments in prayer when I feel closest I am so empty, yet so full of love for Him – it’s His own love reflected.

But oh my word, such a struggle! Abstinence, a chaste lifestyle, a pure mind ... so easy, so simple. A chaste heart – one that doesn’t dwell on silly thoughts; one that doesn’t toss about emotion in careless games; one that keeps a close guard; one whose focus is Christ, and is directed by Him to where it belongs … I've been taught my lesson, I KNOW, and still I cannot learn. Or rather, I've learned; but the back door to my mind is so wide open, it frightens me what creeps in before I am aware.

But. I have been compiling a list, and whoever he is, he better meet it. *evil grin* Gentleness – because it was His gentleness that made me first truly fall in love with Jesus. (Not just to love Him, but to be in love with Him.) Purity, of course. An appreciation or sense of beauty – of the music in all things. And a sort of inner quiet – a deeper life than that lived on the surface.

These things and a few more. All of them found in Christ. And if I can truly love Him as I should, I know He will teach me to be a good wife, and form me as an individual so that I have all the more to give in marriage.

Soon I’ll be married. Sooner than I think, I’m sure. Now is the time to love Jesus with an entire heart, if one that is rather cracked from this and that at the moment – but He will heal that. And while I’ve wasted much of my Advent, during the last week He has given me focus once more. I will have something to give, no matter how little; my heart is a poor stable, but it is His to enter.

2005-08-31T17:02:00.000-04:00

Here I am blogging about college once again. And no one has even commented on previous two posts yet! *COUGH COUGH COUGH* *ahem*

But something blogworthy took place in Writing today; and besides, I told Keesa I'd post it.

Today we had to write the name of our street; our hometown; and our state. (I think he might have meant where we lived now ... but I put down Oxford MI. *grin*) We were then to write about different buildings we remembered from those places; and from there, to describe one of those buildings, and give a particular memory about it.

My natural choice was the Retreat Center in Oxford. I won't post what I wrote ... it's not very good, considering I scribbled it down in less than ten minutes with no editing whatsoever. I didn't take many pains to write with incredible neatness, either ... but when our time was up (before I was finished, I might add - this despite the fact mine was longer than everyone else's I could see), I discovered we were to exchange notebooks and write a response to the other person's story/description.

I told Brandon, as I handed him my notebook, to ask me if he couldn't decipher a word. He did - two times. I was rather impressed it was only twice, actually. I responded to his written memories ... and suddenly I realized I was basically writing a critique such as I'd give on Inkies, only much less in depth. For a moment panic took me. Was this what we were supposed to do? Or was I simply doing what would be seen by him as bashing his work, with no thoughts of my own to add?

Fortunately, Prof. S. had mentioned saying 'what you'd like to see' as one of the main things to include in your response - which was basically what I was doing. (It was a very mild critique. :) )

Meanwhile, he read my scribbles about the retreat center that had once been a mansion, and the forbidden staircase we girls referred to as the 'west wing'. His response:

That seems like a very interesting place. I can somewhat relate to an old building because there is an old mansion back in the city where I grew up and it has a lot of ccrazy history to it. It was lived in by the governor when this town was first discovered, and the house is supposed to have a necklace lost inside that's now worth thousands of dollars. It's recently been renovated and all of the workers swore it was haunted. I don't know really what to say about your writing. It was good except for it was kinda hard to read.

*breaks down laughing*

I suppose next time I shall print. *insert Mr Green*

Continued

2005-08-30T20:47:00.000-04:00

And so I arrived on the misty campus and clambered out of my car: history book and folder with loose leaf paper in one hand, schedule that told me where to go in the other.

Oh yes ... the folder. Sunday night I wisely gathered everything I'd need for this day in one place. When I suddenly realized ... I had somehow managed to forget to buy a single notebook. The irony of standing there, desperate, looking at the dozen or more notebooks lying scattered in my room - yet each and every one of them half full, dedicated to something else. But this is a rabbit trail.

SWC - those three letters indicated which building I was to head to. And head to it I did, and after a few moments of wandering through the maze of floors I found the right room. To my dismay, most of the seats were already taken, despite the fact that I was a good ten minutes early. But I took the empty seat nearest the front - and was very encouraged by the fact that the girl behind me smiled as I sat down.

One by one the few remaining desks filled; then we waited; and then Dr R. entered the room.

I like Dr R. In fact, so far I like all my professors - most of them exude personality. And this one was no exception. He held out attention well - I didn't once feel sleepy, despite the fact I'd risen at 6 am. He wandered about the front of the room sufficiently to keep your eyes from getting numb, even coming slightly down the aisles between desks on occasion. He made eye contact with everyone, and he joked around - though he was not at all jocular. But even in the midst of our laughter, he would suddenly flash to a dead earnestness that meant business - listen, or else. His expectations aren't harsh - but they are to be followed to the letter.

History came and went. I had an hour before my next class, which was to be my last for the day. So I took the opportunity to visit the Newman Center - all the way at the farthest end of the campus from where I was. It was time well spent ... and I found that Prof. R. is involved there. How I'm not exactly sure - but I believe he's given talks and such.

And then it was time to head back to the same building - only this time I was to go a floor above. I hadn't felt nervous since History class began that morning. Now the butterflies danced worse than before. I'm sure if I stood still my hands would have been shaking.

The next class was College Writing. It was the first class in which I was to meet the people I'd be spending the semester with three classes out of six. And I had a ridiculous case of the jitters.

I found the classroom. I took a seat. So far, so good. This time I was one of the first people there - about 5 others had already arrived. One by one the people filtered in ... and I cannot tell you, though I'm sure you can imagine, how much easier it is to watch people come in than be watched!

One guy poked his head in the door and hesitated before wandering in. Then he promptly wandered back out. I could see him through the half-open door, hanging around just outside. Then it was inside once more, and a question: 'Is this elementary math?' And an answer: 'Nope.'

I felt sorry for him; but I was very glad it wasn't me.

More people came in, and I continued watching with interest. I was looking for one person in particular - Dustin, a guy I'd met during Orientation. I knew we were in the same learning cluster, and he was a fellow writer (though of a liberal sort). Finally everyone was there, including the professor - and my baseball-capped acquaintance was nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, Prof. S. introduced himself. All the jocularity lacked in Dr. R. is to be found in this man. Shortish, though not short; white-haired, bearded, wearing a microphone because he'd just had surgery on his vocal chords ... always laughing, always making jokes, always treating the thing like a conversation.

Of course, I'm sure this will change somewhat as things go on and we do more than just syllabus. But still ... I think I'll like this class quite a bit. Even the assignments - to read an essay about writing; write a 500 words response; and then switch responses all around the classroom, and write a response to someone else's response, while another writes something for yours ... I am looking forward to this.

But meanwhile, we filled out little index cards - name, the usual information such as phone number, and a few other things such as hobbies. From these cards the role call was taken; and Dustin's name was among those called and answered to.

I turned around in surprise to the very back, to see a young man with spiked hair. I took a closer look ... and I recognized the eyebrows. It was him. Without the baseball cap.

This class passed quite fast. As soon as it ended, I headed back to my car in the commuter lot, and pulled out for the Book Store lot ... to find it full. After about 15 minutes, I grew bored of driving around in circles, so I returned to the former parking place ... to find it just as full.

It appears there are a good deal more places open at 8 am than noon.

Eventually I found a place to park my dear Lucy, and left her for the bookstore. There I bought notebooks - nice notebooks, partly because I didn't see the inexpensive ones before picking the ones I have out, and partly because I didn't feel like buying inexpensive ones. I also picked up several mechanical pencils ... to find afterwards, to my horror,that they are 'updated' versions of my own Orpheus. I very much hope his feelings aren't hurt ... I don't think he's noticed yet. Let's hope it stays that way.

And so I left the building, bag in hand, walking for my car ... people passing all around me alone and in groups ... the smell of french fries drifting from the cafeteria making me hungry ... when all of a sudden, I felt like a college student.

I don't quite know what college students are supposed to feel like. It seems they should have some sort of atmosphere about them - an aura of learning, a glow of knowledge.

But whatever it is, at that moment ... I had it.

I have since returned to my boringly normal, unaura-ed self. But how fitting, thatI should end my first day of college thus - as a college student.

Yay for tomorrow and only two classes.

So it begins ...

2005-08-29T18:54:00.000-04:00

Today was my first day of college classes.

It's weird, thinking that I can say that now ... that this particular landmark is now past. And sitting here, typing at my computer, I don't feel like a college student at all.

What are college students supposed to feel like, anyway? Well ... I'm not really sure. But I don't feel any different, aside from being tired because I had to get up so early.

Not that I'm complaining ... it was beautiful. I left the house at the time I'd be waking up on work days ... I won't tell you how late I sleep in if left to myself. It's embarrassing. *grin* But as I walked to the car, everything was silent and misty ... I drove the familiar road towards town, and things were no longer familiar. Everything took on a eerie sort of beauty - eerie, not in the frightening sense, but in the surreal: the ethereal.

And as I drove I felt very old and mature. *grin* A passing feeling ... one of many that came and went throughout the day.

I'm afraid a complete account of the day's events and landmarks must wait til tomorrow. Square dancing has snuck up on me, as it so often does (my IM conversations will attest). But no worries - I shall return.

TO BE CONTINUED ...

I'm baaaaack ....

2005-08-25T15:22:00.000-04:00

Yes. I know it has been forever since I posted here. But it was not through laziness alone. There have been extenuating circumstances, that aren't quite dealt with ... but I think I shall post anyway.

Several blogworthy ideas have come and gone, though I hope to catch up on the better ones. But for now, as I am lazy and really should be doing other things that have nothing to do with my beloved internet, I shall simply type the lyrics of a song by a band called Ceili Rain. They're a sort-of Celtic band ... not quite. More like poppish rockish music with Celticish influences. But I love their music, at least on the album 'No you - No me'. It's all so ... upbeat. Happy. Puts you in a good mood, makes you feel like dancing. I am sure Liz will eventually be forced to listen to them. *grin* This particular song is called 'Queen for a Day'. (Note - it's more rhythmical when put to music.)

A puddle for a mirror,
admiring the dress that is
Dragging on the ground,
so please with how she's
Put herself together:
the plastic handbag, the two left shoes,
and the floppy hat she found in the garbage;
She cleans off the dirt
And for a moment she forgets to hurt.

She's queen for a day
She holds her head high
Her crown is her hope
Her robe is her pride
Her spirit is strong
Today nothing's wrong
She's queen for a day

Early next morning
she watches her brother
Go off to school
and wonders what it's
Like to water color
or read from a book that is
not just pictures, or picture girls who
Never are hungry
have blankets and a bed
And in that picture in her head

She's queen for a day
She holds her head high
Her crown is her hope
Her robe is her pride
Her spirit is strong
Today nothing's wrong
She's queen for a day

With the floppy hat on and faith in her heart
No one can tell her she's not
The queen for a day
She holds her head high
Her crown is her hope
Her robe is her pride
Her spirit is strong
Today nothing's wrong
She's queen for a day.

Zorro

2005-06-22T14:24:00.000-04:00

You run across many interesting people at work. (Some, actually, are too ‘interesting’ … but I will try to keep from wandering off topic as much as possible today. It is my day off, after all, and I have much more pleasant things to think about than work!) One of them – last week I believe it was – was an older man that perhaps I had seen before, but didn’t recognize. Almost the entire time I rang him up he was talking to himself – half of it or more for my benefit, but directed towards himself nonetheless.

He went on, saying strange, amusing things. I wish I could remember some of it to repeat, so you could have some idea of just what I mean; but I can recall nothing but the incident that I am about to relate. What he even bought escapes my memory – but I remember how he paid. He gave me a credit card. And so, following standard procedure, I swiped it, waited for the receipt to print, and laid it on the counter before him, repeating the usual line:

“Could you please sign?”

“Alright,” he said, pulling out his own pen instead of the one I offered. “But you have to promise not to laugh.”

And, with a satisfied flourish, he made a little scribble that somewhat resembled a letter – which one, I have no idea – and handed me back the paper with a triumphant: “Zorro!”

I laughed. It was funny enough. But even as I laughed, I turned to my notebook – where lay Liz’s letter-in-progress – and told her all about it. How, yes, it was amusing – but how wonderfully profound, if only he had known it.

Zorro – what an amazing character. A near perfect hero – fighting injustice (and always winning); becoming famous (yet remaining humble, as his true identity is hidden); and how well he handles a sword! With a quick, light-hearted zip his initial is carved on the back of someone’s shirt, its owner not suffering a scratch. But that same sword, slender but keen-edged, wounds so deeply … it brings death in a matter of seconds.

What would Zorro be without his sword?

And here we are – most of you reading this, and I. Are hands are most comfortable holding a pen. (Or on a keyboard … but let’s not spoil the allegory here, ok?) We meander our way across the page, treating things both serious and whimsical with a light-hearted air; drawing people in and making them smile. Yet in a matter of sentences our pen may stroke so deep as to mortally wound the soul with words.

I think, as writers (who must read proficiently), we all know what this is like – to be laughing one minute and be left breathless in painful ecstasy the next. If we’re lucky, this feeling has come sometimes from reading our own writing. (I mean actually reading it, not writing it – we all feel this way when writing. At least, when we’re inspired.) This is the feeling we long to inspire in others – we pray that someone, somewhere, someday, will cry tears of pain at the joys and sorrows in our work.

What would we do if we couldn’t write? What if we knew that we would never affect anyone in this way – would we have the heart to go on? Sometimes it feels like we don’t – we won’t. But I think we all wield more power than we realize. This intense desire … the fact that we have carried on, even when the very thought of writing was agony – even, in our worst moments, distasteful – all this … Part of it is natural, God-given; part of it is what we have added and built on that foundation. We have made our choice; if this gift were taken away from us, we would never recover from its loss.

What would writers be without their pens?

Next part ...

2005-06-19T19:39:00.000-04:00

OK. This'll be a longish one, but I'll post it in one go anyway. :)

********************

He had been returning home from his journey when he had heard the Sunbird's song, so he continued as before. He walked without stopping, yet it was near daybreak as he reached his house. He entered and went to his room, his only light being cast by the feather. And there he found a box in which he hid it, and he placed a lock on it and hid it in a secret place. The key he hung around his neck, and arranged so that none could see it.

No sooner had he done this, than his wife awoke. She was overjoyed at the sight of him, for she had waited long for him into the night. But he would not answer the questions she asked as to what had delayed him.

Two years passed, and all the while the man Kenta kept his gift secret. During that time, he lost much of his money and land; and things went ill with him. He had never been a rich man, but a poor farmer. His wife grew ill and weak, and many misfortunes befell him. Often his thought's turned to the Phoenix's gift, and he considered summoning the bird to remedy all his troubles.

But he knew that though he was plagued by ill fortune, in the face of all the troubles of man they were naught, and were unworthy of the bird's call.

Shortly after the man returned to his home, it came to the attention of ____, the god of Darkness and enemy of the light, that the Sunbird no longer lingered near man. When his song was heard, it was in the mountains where no man dwelt; and it was a song of joy rather than of seeking. Then he knew that a faithful man had been found, and the gift given. Thus he set out to find which man it might be.

His task was an easy one -- for the light of the Phoenix shown clearly in the eyes of Kenta, for those who could perceive it. And when he was found, ____ sent him terrible dreams of great fears and horrors, in order to test his strength.

So it was that when the second year began, a night seldom passed when the man Kenta did not fear to sleep. But when exhaustion overtook him, he had only to unlock the box, and look on the Sunbird's gift; and then peace would come to him, and he thought he was sung to slumber by the bird's voice.

In time the god of Darkness grew impatient, and tired of waiting. So he found a gang of wayward men, and stirred evil thoughts and desires in their hearts; and they planned to steal from the man Kenta, and to ruin him. ____'s hopes in doing this were to have Kenta use the Sunbird's gift on himself, rather than for some great deed. For such are the ways of the Darkness: wherever the Light bestows, the Darkness follows in hopes to steal for its own purposes.

Thus it was that one morning, Kenta woke to find the men setting his house in flames; and looking out the window, he saw his fields on fire, and all his livestock slaughtered. And the men, once all was in flames, sat in a circle, laughing, drinking beer from his kitchen and eating the flesh of his animals. So he took the box which hid the gift, and woke his wife, and they escaped out the window. But his wife was weak from her illness, and could not run. Though the men did not at first see them, a fit of her coughing gave them away.

Then the men, on seeing them, tied Kenta and beat him, and threw the box into the fire. They found the key around his neck, and burned that as well; then they killed his wife before his eyes, and left her to lie beside him. This finished, they left Kenta so injured that he was unable to move without great pain, and returned to their feasting.

The man Kenta lay in despair, watching as the box burned before him. But even as it turned to ashes, he saw the feather emerge, unharmed, as if it itself were a flame. And by some miracle it drifted towards him, until it sat within reach of his bound hand. And Kenta saw in his mind's eye the Phoenix; and he pictured all his farm restored and made better than before, and his wife alive and no longer ill.

But even as these thoughts entered his mind, a traveler was passing on the road. Seeing the fire, he stopped to give what aid he could; and the evil men, still full of the things which ____ had put in their hearts, turned to him. They overpowered him, and stripped him – for his clothes were those of a rich man. And then they beat him, as they had Kenta; but for him they showed no signs of stopping.

The man Kenta saw this, and was grieved, for his heart was now torn in two. He wished to restore his own; yet here was a man who had stopped to help him, and now was in danger of death. A thought crossed his mind that, were he restored his full strength, he himself could save this man. But he knew in his heart that this was not so, and saw what he must do.

So Kenta reached and grasped the feather in his right hand. And, looking one last time into the dead eyes of his wife, he called on the bird to save the man's life.

Suddenly there was a great heat, and the men stopped what they were doing to wipe their brows. Then they looked up, and as they did so they saw a great light as if the sun were falling on them from the sky. And the Phoenix descended on them, with heat so great they were burned; and a light shone from him that blinded them, and caused them great pain. From his beak came a song of such great beauty that Kenta forgot his pain. But to the men it was a terrible noise, and they fled. Only the Darkness knows where they hid, or in what dark holes they licked their wounds and dwell on evil thoughts, before they died. For the Light paid them no more heed.

After they had fled, the Phoenix approached the man Kenta. With his beak he sundered his bonds, and then he touched him with his wing. As he did so, a fire ran through Kenta's veins, burning him with pain greater than he had ever known. Yet it delighted him, and when it passed he knew he was healed of his hurts. He stood, and, with the bird perched on his arm, went to where the rich man lay unconscious on the road.

When they reached him, the Phoenix touched him as he had Kenta. His wounds were healed, but he did not awake; rather, his faint was turned to slumber. Then, the heat of the bird subsided to a pulsating warmth, and it allowed Kenta to stroke its feathers.

The Sunbird looked around him, and saw the desolation the evil men had made. The fires had gone out in the presence of his greater flame, but all they had burned remained blackened. Animals lay dead in pools of their own blood -- and the wife of Kenta lay with open eyes, but no breath in her body. And Kenta saw all this with eyes no longer scorched by smoke, and wept.

The Phoenix pitied him, and seemed to know what torment his choice now gave him. He spoke to him in a voice of music, which stirred deep inside the man’s heart.

"It is well you chose as you did, Kenta the Faithful. Houses can be rebuilt, crops resown; but once the spirit is parted from its house, it cannot return. Life is with the mind, not the body; and just as a full-grown man cannot return to childhood, so death is a step which cannot be undone."
Though the words contained no comfort, the way in which they were spoken dried the man's tears. And he looked into the bird's eyes, blue as the sea, and found consolation.

Then the bird threw back its head and sang in triumph. As it did so, a single feather fell from its crest and landed before Kenta's feet. There it sat like the last ember of a dying fire, only it was full of life. He took it, and it glowed red and full of light, even as the bird's own blood must have been. And he rejoiced in the Phoenix's song.

When the bird had finished singing, it turned to Kenta and spoke once more.

"I cannot give you back your lands, for you wisely chose to use your gift differently. But do not be discouraged! I know now my choice in you was well-made. And what is done rightly never goes unrewarded, though the reward may not come when wished for, or be what is expected. Use this second gift wisely, and speak of it to none. Fear not the Darkness! For it is his greatest power."

And when it had finished saying this, the Sunbird spread its wings and left.

For many hours after, the man Kenta sat and pondered all that had happened. Then, with great sorrow, he set himself the task of setting things to rights; his first duty was to tend to the shell which had once held his wife.

All that needed doing took much of his time. The whole took three days, and he stopped only to eat, drink, and sleep. And all the while the stranger slept, until he woke on the third day with great hunger. Kenta fed him what little was left of his food, and on his asking told the story of what had happened. Of the Phoenix and his gift he said nothing -- he only revealed that the a creature of light had answered his distress, and left shortly after.

The red feather he kept hidden close to his heart, and its light diminished so as to remain secret. The feel of it was warm on his breast, and sometimes he imagined it beat with the pulse of his own heart.

The man, on hearing the tale of woe, wept for the pain which Kenta had endured for his sake; and when the take was finished, he asked him to return with him to his own house, that he might repay him. Having performed all his duties, Kenta had nothing left to call his own; so he agreed to the man's request, and the two set out together that same day.

They traveled on foot, for the man's horse had either fled or been stolen. After having traveled much distance, they came within sight of the city where the king dwelt with his court. Kenta was unsurprised -- for the man had been rich, and he carried himself proudly. He supposed him to be a lord of some status.

When the two had entered the city, they made their way up the hill upon which the castle was built. Along that road were all the houses of those who were rich and noble, each grander than the last as they ascended. Yet to Kenta's wonder, they passed one after the other by; and before long they had passed all, and stood before the doors of the palace. And the man, though poorly clothed since his rich garments had bee stolen, was let in without delay.

He made his way through the palace as one who knew his way, and all gave way before him, though all looked on with a curious eye. The wonder and amazement of Kenta grew with every step he took in his companion's wake.

Then the two entered the throne room, and the man bade Kenta to remain still. He himself continued, and ascended the steps that led up to the elevated throne; and there he sat. A servant came and placed a circlet of gold upon his head, and he took a golden scepter in his hand.

And the man Kenta knelt, bowing his head in shame, for he had not known his king's face. Positioned thus, he begged the king for his pardon.

But the man who was king left his throne to come and stand beside Kenta, lifting him to his feet. In his hand he placed a silver rod, and on his finger a band of gold. Then he kissed his brow and proclaimed him before all present his savior, a lord, and a friend. The last was of most value to Kenta's ears; for the two men had grown in friendship upon their journey.

So it was that two more years in the life of the man Kenta passed. During those years, he grew in the king's favor, and soon sat at his right hand.

The Phoenix

2005-06-12T17:49:00.000-04:00

I think most of you know, to some extent or another, of the explosion of the Phoenix Tale. Well, I am embarking on a risky endeavor - I am rewriting it. Not editing the version I have - writing an entirely new one, one that's actually a story rather than a legend. I am very excited, very nervous, and have a feeling it's going to be a wild ride. What a perfect time to do Club 100! ;)

But I thought I might post some of the original here ... reading it gave me goosebumps for the story that will, by God's grace and my own effort, be written.

Here's part of it. (Please note - no, the god of Darkness has no name. Thus the the little blanks scattered all over the place. Also, I have not edited this since it was written - bear it in mind. *grin* One last thing ... when my cousin read this he thought I was trying to imitate Tolkien. The reason I wrote it in this tone was because it was supposed to have been told by a character in Shanlara, as a legend.

That is all.)

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The Phoenix Tale

Little is known to mortal men of the ways of the Sunbird, whom we also call the Phoenix. What little we know has been given to us by the chosen ones, the Faithful; but to common knowledge, his song has not been heard in mortal lands for many ages.

What we know is this: that its true home lies in the Lands of the Sun, on the Holy Mountain that is said to grow even as the trees of fire that surround it. It stands taller than any mountain of man, keeping its guard over the River of Golden Light. This is the Land which lies west of the Great Sea, and it cannot be reached by men.

In days of old, each Sunbird, when it felt the end of its life draw near, would fly across the sea to the Lands of Men. There, he would search for the one among mortals who remained most faithful to truth and the Light. His song awoke long forgotten dreams and desires in the hearts of all who heard it, for it was more beautiful than any earthly sound.

Many tales of the bird’s visits have been lost to us, and none know how many times the Phoenix has visited men, nor how long it has been since his song was last heard east of the sea. But one tale remains to us, and it is said that it is the tale of greatest beauty: the tale of the Sunbird’s last known visit to the darkness of mortal lands.

If one believes that the Phoenix no longer crosses the sea because faithful men are now few, it was in this time that their numbers began to diminish. Many men turned to ____, god of Darkness, enemy of the Light. Many more worshipped no god, or worshipped with but half their hearts, so that while not of Darkness they were neither of the Light. Even the great king of those days, though he tried to be a man both honest and just, was weak and easily conquered by fear and greed.

In that year, the Phoenix flew across the Dividing Sea, and found that none remembered his coming. He saw the hold his enemy ____ had in the king’s house, and in the houses of many common men, though they knew it not; and he was sorrowful. But he did not lose hope.

He flew high over the streets of the city, and sang his song; and as he flew over head he was as a streak of brilliant light. Many, captured by his song, stopped t listen, and some looked up to see him pass.

But the followers of ____, though they felt a stirring in their hearts, went on their way. Those who believed nothing knew not what to make of it. Many who followed the Light took it as a sign, but knew not what it could mean; for they had allowed themselves to grow ignorant.

So the Phoenix, seeing that their hearts did not respond to the stirrings his song aroused in them, left the city; for he perceived it was there that the Darkness had its greatest hold. He flew over the woods, the mountains, and the fields, and sang to every man and woman he met, calling to their hearts. But though all stopped, and some searched, none found him; for they gave up their search too soon. All loved the song for its beauty, but none heard its message.

There were many men, however, who searched long before deciding that their quest was in vain. Some who had heard his first singing above the city streets left their homes in search of him; others, travelers, did not stop at their destination, but continued on in hopes to hear his song once more. Some persevered longer than others; all abandoned the quest before its object was achieved.

One day, the Phoenix chose as its resting place a wood. It was ancient wood; the lives of its trees were many times longer than those of men, and it was full of things both good and evil. A road cut through its shadow for a short distance, but not many men dared cross it. Those who did were cautious, keeping their eyes on the path before them. They were careful not to stray off the road; and they looked not into the wood, for fear of being drawn in by evil eyes.

While the Phoenix rested there, few men passed; and though they would have followed when he sang (for he was near at hand), they did not even turn to search with their eyes, for fear of the wood.

Then, as day waned and darkness drew nigh, the numbers who passed grew less, for the path was treacherous at night. But one last man came ere darkness fell. He walked with a fast but quiet step, eyes fixed straight before him in fear. For it was darker inside the forest than out, and he hadn’t realized this before he entered; therefore, he was eager to be out.

The Phoenix, who feared no evil creatures that lived in the wood (for though dangerous to men, they were but petty things), had retreated further among the trees for the night. But, quiet though his tread was, he heard the man passing: and he sent forth his song.

And the man heard it; and its beauty pierced his heart with a great longing. And, as he stopped to listen, he perceived that the song spoke to him - not in words, but in the language of the soul. And he knew it called him thither. Turning, he saw the darkness of the wood and was afraid. But the song was not of the Darkness, but apart from it completely. So he conquered his fear, and under its protection left the path to seek from whence it came.

As he went, he felt many eyes upon him, of creatures both larger than he and so small that he could hold ten in his hand. Sometimes he felt a gaze that was evil, and wished him harm. More than once he felt some thing grasp or finger his arms or legs; and he could hear footsteps both light and heavy behind and before him. But he continued on, keeping his eyes before him, looking not to the sides or down or
behind.

So it was that he came at last in safety to a clearing, in the middle of which rose a small hill - and the song ceased. In distress, he climbed the hill, and found that on its crest it was light as day, with the light of the sun; but the sun had long since set, and below him it was night. Before him grew a large tree, and its branches were filled with birds of all kinds, many of which he did not know. But though all sang, he could not hear the song for which he sought.

But suddenly the birds ceased their singing, and the Song rose majestically from the silence; and he knew that it was not of mortal lands. And even as his heart leapt for joy at its sound, he saw a bird rise from the uppermost branches of the tree and descend to him.

It was in size no larger than an eagle, but from it radiated both heat and light. Its feathers were of brilliant gold, each with a light of its own; and the long plumes of his tail were as flames of fire. His red crest leapt majestically back, its curve continued in the great beak. And he was so bright that the man could not look on him, and the heat was almost unbearable.

But even as the bird reached the air before him, his heat diminished to a pleasant warmth. And though he remained bright as the sun, the light grew less in its intensity, so that he could be looked upon. And the man, almost without his knowledge, extended his right arm that the bird could land on it, and with his left hand reached out to touch the golden feathers. He found that they were soft as down to his hand. And he saw that among the gold, its eyes were as deep and endless, as blue and green as the sea.

And the man realized that this was the Phoenix, the bird of the sun.

Even as this realization entered his mind, the bird spoke to him. Its voice was as clear and musical as its song; and if the man had not heard it sing, he would have thought it the most beautiful sound ever to touch mortal ears. But he could not tell whether the voice issued from the bird’s beak, or merely sounded within his own mind.

“I am the Sunbird, whom you call the Phoenix,” it spoke, “and you of all mortal men have proven faithful enough to truly seek my song, without doubt or half-heartedness. What name do you give yourself?”

And the man, with great respect, told the name by which he was called. And the name which he gave was Kenta.

“You shall be called Kenta the Faithful in times that are to come,” spoke the bird. And as it spoke it spread its wings, and each individual feather gave off a light so dazzling that the man Kenta thought he must go blind. As it did this, a single feather fell to the ground at his feet, and lay there separated from its owner. Though its light was now dimmed, it still shone of its own accord.

Then the Phoenix flew to the ground and took it in its beak, and dropped it in the man's hand. Its light was such that if he closed his hand around it, it shone through as if his skin were transparent; yet he could gaze on it unwaveringly.

Even as the feather left its beak, the bird spoke again.

"If ever you are in need, you have only to remember this gift. For it is a token which shows you to be in the service of the Light, and you have its protection. Leave now, whatever your errand, and return to your house, and put it safe away. Let no others see or touch it, and speak of it to no one, for the Darkness is now all around you. It will keep you safe upon your way."

Then the bird spread his wings and took to the air. When he was gone, all was left in darkness but the air which surrounded the feather. The man Kenta turned his back to the hill, and returned to the woods. The feather lit a way before his feet; and though he sensed many evil eyes around him, none dared touch him or follow -- for the feared the light. Soon he reached the road by which he had been travelling, and set once more upon his way.

On Round Dancing

2005-06-10T07:41:00.000-04:00

Monday night we went square dancing. It was a pleasant enough evening, and the same as most other Monday night square dances at the Atrium. There was square dancing (of course) and round dancing and line dancing and food and conversation and announcements and such, as there usually are.

But I am typing this post to tell, in particular, about the round dancing – or rather the thoughts that arose as I watched it.

For those who don’t know – which will be most of you – round dancing is a different form of dance than square dancing, though it is similar in some respects and the two are associated with each other. In square dance, there are four couples following calls … and if one messes up, the whole square is shattered. (Let me tell you, being the one to mess up isn’t that pleasant.) Round dancing, on the other hand, involves only each individual couple. It still follows calls – or cues, perhaps, as the person who gives them is called a ‘cuer’. The couples take their positions on the floor, and when they dance they move in a circle around the room. Hence the name round dancing.

Sometimes they dance to waltzes; sometimes to polkas; sometimes to two steps; sometimes to … well, you get the idea. :) Some couples sort of stumble through the calls; but other couples … simply put, they are beautiful. I have to admit when I think of men, I don’t generally think of grace – but the men who round dance, and round dance well, are some of the most graceful people I’ve seen. The man and woman move as one – there is a transition so seamless between movements, you can’t even tell they’re two separate calls.

Now, in general round dancers are … well, they’re senior citizens. And, of course, they’re usually married.

There’s one song in particular that I love to watch people round dance too. It’s a waltz … I don’t know the name, though I should. I’ve heard the cuer announce it enough times! But Monday night, they put this waltz on the record player. The soft piano introduction played; then came the cuer’s voice. The circle began to move.

I couldn’t participate – but I could watch. And something happened to me that happens almost every time this waltz is played: I began to tear up.

Imagine: a drifting, gentle music playing in the background. And dancing to it’s rhythm, a man and woman, both with grey hair. The man is dressed in a Western shirt, with a scarf around his neck; maybe even with cowboy boots. But what one sees is his face – his eyes: for they are gazing directly before him at the girl in his arms. She is wearing a beautiful dress – light blue, with white ruffles about the neck and shoulders. It comes down slightly below her knees, but flutters out every time she twirls. Her soft grey hair is pulled back from her face – the face which he watches with love.

They move together across the floor. Stepping forward; stepping back; she passes beneath his arm; she walks behind him as he guides her gently; she laces from side to side; she returns to his arms. They are in love. They have been for thirty … forty … fifty years. I will not say they never regretted saying ‘I do’ – is that human? We all have difficult times, trials of the soul, when even our loved ones seem repulsive to us. But the beauty, the true love, lies in overcoming these times.

With this man and this woman, love has conquered over the years. They have never left each other’s side. They have grown together – spiritually, emotionally – so that they can no longer be separated. Two distinct persons, living as one.

Two persons – smooth, graceful, beautiful – moving as one.

And looking at these two people, I saw with the eyes of hope myself, and whoever it is that I may marry. That is us – who we will become, so it pleases God.

And when I get married, my husband is learning to round dance.

Knight of the Golden Flyswatter

2005-05-31T17:47:00.000-04:00

Gather round! I have a tale of great bravery to tell - of courage unlessened by the fact that it's quest failed. For it failed not through any lack of effort, but rather an ill chance that left a knight so poorly armed.

There was once a ferocious monster who lived in a dark and fearsome cave, and whose sole purpose in life was to hinder the ways of those who dwelt nearby and terrorize their vegetables. This monster, in appearance, was nothing more than a brown blob, from which only it's head (adorned with two beady eyes) could be distinguished. It's feet were lost in it's hairy fatness, so that when it waddled across the land it looked like some hairy worm. The people lived in a state of fear, and did their best to rid themselves of this terror. They threw mothballs into his cave - but he ignored them. They put fences around their garden - but he climbed over them, just as they had seen his relatives hanging onto fences by the Ohio Turnpike (though no one believed them).

This creature was known by many names. To some he was the dreaded Chucker of Wood; to others, the Whistling Pig. But to these people he was known by his most fearsome title: Hog, Master of the Ground.

The people he terrorized learned to adjust their way of life. They removed their fields of tomatoes and lettuces as far away as they could from his mothball infested cave. They learned to watch for his presence and take appropriate measures.

But the monster was crafty, and knew all their tricks; and he devised a plan of his own. For a long while he worked in secret without being discovered - then one day a townsperson discovered him in action.

This townsperson was going about his daily labor, which began with but was not limited to opening the door of a red Ford Escort and getting inside. This part of his duties he performed quite well; it was a point of pride in his work. One day - a day that began as any day - he went out and opened his door as usual. But before he had the chance to step inside, he was startled by none other than the dreaded Hog, Master of the Ground. The monster had been lying in wait beneath his car, and scurried away at his approach.

Seeing the monster flee - or so it appeared - the man thought little of it. He continued with his work. But the next day the sequence of events was repeated - opening of the door, scurring of the Hog - and for many days following. And, could that be an evil chortle he heard as the hairy creature waddled away?

Distressed, the man pondered what this could mean. What was the evil beast's dastardly plan? And then he was enlightened - the monster was, slowly but surely, eating away at his car.

The next morning the man was prepared. He armed himself with an air gun - but, to his horror, the pellets merely bounced off the monster's thick hide, and it scurried away with no harm taken.

Dire circumstances call for heroic action. And so the local knight, Sir Anthony, was alerted to the monster's presence.

Sir Anthony was a knight of humble means - for, though he performed many good works, none of them had merited him fame. And so he was forced to perform menial labors for his bread - and one of the many was to walk the landlord's dogs. And though this was not a chore he loved, he knew this - that it was the perfect opportunity to keep watch for the monster. Not to mention the many mice that wandered these parts - which were no danger, yet a great nuisance.

They were a nuisance in more ways than one - for often on mornings, while walking the dogs, he heard them and had to deal with them accordingly; but this distracted attention that should have been given to his watching for the monster.

Thus it was that one morning, just that happened - he was returning the dogs to their kennels, when he heard a noise on the other side of the gate to the lawn. After listening, he sighed deeply, returned the dog to it's kennel, and armed himself to deal with this pest.

Now, most knights have swords; sadly, this knight was (as has been mentioned) a knight of humble means, and could afford no such weapon. (As the one given him by his grandfather was rusted away, and of little use.) But the weapon he had, while flimsy, was costly - for it was built of solid gold. It was a flyswatter - for the closest to fame Sir Anthony had reached was in delivering a neighboring farm from a terrible pest, known as the Great Bumble. But such things had since become commonplace, as the Great Bumbles descendants increased; so he returned to obscurity. However, his fame was sweet to the soul while it lasted, and he was given a noble present from the local lord - the golden flyswatter, with which he now armed himself.

The mouse must prepare to face death; but it would be an expensive death.

Cunning in the ways of stealth, Sir Anthony knew how to sneak over the fence at the far end, and thus come up behind any rodents without their knowledge of his presence. And so he crept at his silentest, making not a sound - when he stopped in utter shock. For his eyes beheld not the mouse expected, but none other than the great Hog himself!

For a moment his amazement overpowered him with motionlessness. But then the ever ready knight took action. Step by silent step, hardly daring to breath, he drew closer to the monster. He could see now what it was doing - gnawing a hole through the gate, so he could enter into the sanctuary called Garage! This could not be allowed to happen - to many precious things were kept within the safety of that gate. If the monster broke through ...

Sir Anthony took action. He was no more than a foot behind the monster - within reach of his hairy, ugly hide. And with all his might he swung - and his might was strong, for years of moving cow manure for a living had made him muscular.

But his weapon, though pure gold, was no more than a flyswatter.

The monster felt the great blow through it's thick rump, and turned to stare at the knight with a starteld gaze. For a moment they looked at each other, eye to eye ... and then the Hog scuffled slowly away, as fast as it's newly acquired limp would allow.

Sir Anthony stared at the golden swatter in his hand, and sadly shook his head. Here was a chance for great fame - lost.

And yet ... even with such a pathetic weapon, he had made the monster run - with minor injuries. He had stared the beast in the eye, and lived to tell the tale.

If any would believe him.

Shouldering his weapon with a smile, Sir Anthony went inside to prepare the dishes for breakfast. He may win no fame - but he had done a great deed, and knew his own worth as a knight.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My friends, this tale is true. Doubtless the Princesses who read it will be impressed with such noble valour (and I may tell you that this knight has no lady, though he seems to have no interest in finding one for the present. Thank God ...) And for those knights ... *glances in specific knightly person's direction* Let this be an example to you of noble deeds.

And be it known by above mentioned knights ... that Sir Anthony never, ever complains of the weather's being boring ... nor does he call it tempermental.

2005-05-29T15:00:00.000-04:00

Well, there were several things I had floating around in my mind that I was considering posting about ... nothing profound, really, and nothing that I had much to say about - just ideas. But I realized, a lot of my friends have been getting hints about certain things going on in my life lately that don't make much sense without the whole story - so perhaps it would be nice to fill them in. :)

Some of you will know that for as long as I've wanted to go to college, Franciscan University of Steubenville OH has been my dearest dream. It began in MI, when all my friends and I planned to go there and be together. But it became a real desire for me the first day I stepped on campus. It was everything I desired in a college - which, granted, was not a whole lot. But what mattered to me was that I went someplace that understood my goals in life, and helped me acheive them - that centered everything around my love of Christ. Franciscan would do just that. Instead of sororities and franternities (though there are a few of those), Franciscan has households, which are based on spirituality. It's a beautiful campus, and small enough so that the student to faculty ratio is 16:1.

I first went to Franciscan for a Praise and Worship festival. It was the first time I had ever experienced anything of its kind - and it was amazing. When I went for an official visit and was able to sit in on the classes, I came away so excited - I couldn't wait to be there.

But Franciscan is expensive, because it isn't well endowed. So I was told I could get two years there, maybe three, but probably no more.

Disappointing - but my love affair with the college continued. Over the summer I was blessed enough to attend one of their Highschool Youth Conferences - what an amazing experience! And meanwhile, my family and I began making concrete arrangements in preparation for college - applying for scholarships, looking into finances, etc. And so a visit to discuss cost and payments was arranged.

I came home from that visit with tears in my eyes the whole way home. In the privacy of my room I had a meltdown. All my dreams for the next four years were taken away in the space of half an hour. There was still some hope for the last one or two years ... but even that was shaky. And I found myself looking into other colleges - all in a rush, as it had been delayed too long due to unrealistic expectations; and I didn't care. This college had this advantage; that had another; but what did it matter? None, not a single one, was Franciscan.

My most likely option was a Catholic college near my dad's work. It took one visit to decide it was out of the question. I won't go into the reasons why - I think most of you have heard them at some point or another. But the choices were narrowed down to the local community college and a state run school about half an hour away.

The advantages of the community college were - and are - as follows: 1) Low cost. 2) Near by. Of the state run school: 1) My major is actually _there_. 2) They had a Newman center!! The downsides? The local school had no writing courses whatsoever; the state run one's deadline was past for scholarships. I was indecisive for a long time ... I didn't _want_ to go to _either_ of these schools. But then we stopped by the Newman center ... I don't think I realized it at the time, but my decision was made then and there.

So my spot was reserved for orientation June 14th; my application for community college was procrastinated; and when people asked which college I was going to, I began giving a definite answer.

Until Tuesday of last week.

Franciscan was still, is still, my dream. When it was out of the question, I felt I didn't _have_ any dreams - a very empty, lonely feeling. But I realized I was wrong when my mom started telling me something my dad was supposed to for weeks, but had delayed. This school may be inexpensive in comparison to other places - $6000 a year, more or less. But if I went there, my parents would be unable to save enough money for me to attend Steubenville - perhaps not even for a single year.

Perhaps going to this school wasn't a dream like Franciscan; but it was all I had. I was in a state of shock.

Then, as my mom and I sat on the couch discussing it, the phone rang. She answered it - but I could hear the voice on the other line. It was Liz. Hearing her voice brought me to tears - I needed someone who understood; someone I could tell everything to. I could tell my mom, of course; but she already felt terrible. She knew how much I wanted this - how terribly heartbreaking everything was.

I needed a shoulder to cry on.

I can't quite remember the rest of that day; was it, perhaps, Lyn's birthday? Something happened that cheered me up _somehow_, but it was passing. I asked for prayers on the Nano H-S thread, and on Inkspillers. But I didn't go onto Nano for some days after - so I didn't see the response.

Yet though I didn't see ... I knew.

Wednsday I got a letter in the mail. It was from the college I wanted to go to - the state run school. Being an impatient person, I opened it as I walked back up the driveway. It's contents? ... A congratulatory letter, telling me I had won a merit scholarship that payed for half a semester each year. I scholarship I hadn't applied for, and couldn't have because the deadline was past - and yet it was given to me.

And I knew that people had been praying.

I suppose this situation isn't over ... every time I think it is, it springs up once more. But the first good thing has happened since the whole thing began - and I hope and pray it is the first of more to come.

And thank you for your prayers!

Male and Female Writers

2005-05-22T19:12:00.000-04:00

One of the greatest and most necessary blessings a writer can have is the acquaintance of fellow writers - people who understand and are willing to listen to your rants, ravings, and soliloquies. But to have friends who happen to be writers ... or to form friendships with writers you know ... what a wonderful and precious gift!

And how very blessed a person I am!

In fact, I wonder if friendship isn't essential to writing. It was through friendship - and, specifically, fruzenship ;) - that I discovered writing. Without the support, the understanding, the faith given me by my wonderful friends, I doubt my love of writing would have survived. And the truly wonderful thing is that I can do the same in return.

A shared passion for writing creates an incredible bond between persons, whether it's the foundation of friendship or something discovered later. I am lucky enough to have quite a few writing friends, both male and female. In fact, I have only one or two male friends who anre't writers. (which enables some people to name all the male friends I have. Yes Katie and Liz, you know them all.) But that's beside the point; the purpose of this post which I have so rambled in coming to is this: I have noticed certain differences between the way guys and gals write. Now, all my friends write mainly fantasy, and some of the things I've noticed are centered around this fact. But I think they can be extended to writing in general.

My writing guy friends show an incredible ability for worldbuilding. I cannot tell you how many times I have sat, staring in awe at an elaborate map; a detailed drawing - meanwhile thinking in shame of my own pathetic attempts stashed in the back of a folder, never to see the light of day. One has his own language; I'm not sure about the other, but I have seen alphabets in his binder. Races have their detailed history. Meanwhile, I and most of my female friends stumble upon our worlds by chance. I have tried to sit down and plan cultures, histories - it never quite works. The only reason I know most of what I know about Adrian's Silmara is because Adrian himself has told me. I learned about knighthood because he and Tristan discussed becoming knights; I learned about the Council because Fiontan was murdered, and Luca gained much power.

Which brings me to the place where us girls shine: characters. Girls have less trouble portraying the characters that live in their heads. Also, they are less in control of what said characters do. Sometimes my guyfriend's characters do spontaneous or even disobedient things. But here lies the difference: they believe that, ultimately, they have control. Whether this is true or not, I don't know. But I have never heard of one of their characters refusing to ride a borrowed horse even though he must travel among mounted men; nor have they insisted that the author rewrite how they get out of bed three times, each time distinctly different from the time before. (As if anybody could see him ... alone in his room with a closed door ... how picky!)

I think as far as plot is concerned, that it falls into place according to the differences mentioned above - characters being dictators of the female story; males having more control and keeping the overall scheme of things more in mind. This is an extreme and sweeping comment I realize, and thus not always true. But in general, overall, in the broad scope of things ... I think this is how it works. :)

And besides ... these differences are superficial, and without boundaries to keep them enforced. It is the similarities that are strong - what we, as writers, all have in common. For it's these things that make us what we are.

For we are all writers, these friends and I. Friends is the most important word - we are all friends who happen to write.

And I say happen ... yet is there such a thing as coincidence when it comes to friendship?

Finding Beauty

2005-05-16T17:22:00.000-04:00

Time to resurrect yet another old thought and give it new life. (Or try to...)

I remember once walking outside - last year, in the late summer, I believe - after having spent some time in prayer. My thoughts were wandering, but I was guiding them along certain paths, and sharing them with God. And - how unusual - they came to the subject of my writing, and from there moved on to art in general.

As my mind eplored this endless topic, it struck me that all forms of art at their greatest beauty resemble each other. Beautiful prose sounds like poetry; and poetry sounds like music. Both forms of writing, when written well, evoke images - and, though it would come as no surprise if this is a quirk all my own, when I read a novel or poem that has me in its grasp, I start to hum the 'soundtrack'. A beautiful painting or drawing always makes me wonder about the story - the words and the music - behind it,whether of the picture itself or the person who created it. And music ... music is a combination of all these things - of sound, of images - the sum of beauty.

Different forms of art evoke different emotions; but as each becomes purer and more beautiful, the feelings they bring forth become similar.As if there were a multi-sided pyramid, with each of the bottom points a way of expressing beauty; and the more beautiful a thing is - the further up the slope - the closer it is to the peak, which is beauty itself.

True art strives for beauty - and thus for truth. Because Truth is Beauty. God is the source of all beauty; God is Truth. And so art is the search for God. Each person searches for Him in a unique way - no two paths are alike. Yet we are all searching for the same thing. Music could never replace poetry, and poetry could never replace prose, and writing could never replace art - they are all incredibly different. But their purpose is the same; and the better they fulfill that purpose, the more alike the result will be.

Which, of course, really deepens our call as writers, doesn't it?

And as I rethought this, I realized that all people, whether writers/musicians/artists/sculptors/etc or not, actually are artists and imitate God in sub-creation ... but I guess I should save that for another post, if any. This one sounds confused enough already.

Here goes!

2005-05-11T12:28:00.000-04:00

Music turns the world around you into song.

I was riding with my Dad on Saturday through the hectic maze of Wal-Mart’s parking lot; and, as usual, his Celtic music was playing in the foreground. I love riding places with my Dad – it’s a special time we spend together. And his music somehow seems to play a big part in it. I would still enjoy his company without it, of course; but it’s like having a soundtrack for your mood. Especially since his music always reminds me so much of him; it’s a kind we both love, but I seldom hear except for in his car.

This particular trip – ok, I admit it, it was for last minute Mother’s Day shopping – was no exception. The usual frustrations of a jam-packed parking lot took place all around us: people crossing two feet in front of the car without looking to see we actually weren’t planning on stopping; the race for the closest spot; the endless stop and go. But all was done to the strains of Celtic music – music that runs through your veins, that makes you feel truly alive. And as I looked at everything around me, I saw the change was not only in myself – it was in everything.

The crowd of people was suddenly romantic – no, beautiful, as a crowd and as individuals. Sometimes I look at people and wonder – what has their day been like today? Why are they here? What is there past, their present, their future? But now, it didn’t matter – no matter what mood they were in or what they were doing, each one was a walking poem. Even if the nearest decided to step in front of us without looking, or scowl in return to my smile, I saw them – body and soul, a work of art as God created them, beyond my perception of beauty.

All people at all times are walking poems, whether of beauty or horror; but the music opened my eyes. It’s amazing to think of what beauty one doesn’t see!

Wal-Mart was conquered; the mission’s focus turned to Home Depot for plumbing necessities. (Sadly, this mission was never completed; the sink in our bathroom remains broken. But that is another story.) The celtic music ran it’s course, and as my Dad returned from plumbing failure in went Beethoven’s 7th into the cassette player. Home Depot isn’t particularly my favorite store (though ironically I work in a place very similar to it); yet around this time of year the outside of it at least is beautiful. Flowers – flowers – flowers! Hanging baskets, blossoming trees, flats of tiny plants … all blooming everywhere! And the people carrying the flowers – they too were beautiful. The hectic swarm at Wal-Mart seethed with life, and thus merited Celtic music. Here, there were less people; but they were on missions of beauty. (Or plumbing. But one can imagine they were coming for the flowers. And I suppose some people see plumbing as beautiful, though I have yet to meet them.) They were sensitive to the finer things – to art – and they walked to the strains of a symphony.

So the music played. The movements passed, each one with its own mood; and to the rhythm of each the cars around us danced. So did the rest of the world. I had seen how lovely that tree was before, of course; but I had never noticed it was a song in itself. And the expanse of Butler below us, which locals exaggerate into a ‘city’ – its streets and buildings and the flow of life formed the rhythm of a poem … if only I could capture that poem! And just as the one traffic light turned green, the music escalated, so that we drove up the narrow hill to a triumphant blast. Making it up that steep road was an adventure – one that mattered in the annals of history.

The amazing thing is, this was not a singular event. It happens whenever one listens to music – at least, when one truly listens, with heart and soul. The song becomes a part of your very soul, flowing through your veins and beating with your heart. Rock makes you happy, excited, ready to conquer the world. Enya (she is a genre of her own) tears your soul with heart rending beauty, whether of joy or sadness. Celtic music blends at once a vibrant joy in living and a wistfulness for what life should be, but can’t be on this earth.

Music makes me feel like poetry – it makes me believe I am a poem, in all I say and do. The two aren’t so different – poetry is music with words alone. But good poetry makes me feel all quiet inside; good music makes me want to run out and dance in a field. Music creates the poem around me – or makes me aware of it – and inspires me to capture it in my own words.

If only I could! How often I feel the poem well up inside of me, and rush for paper – only to have a lot of useless and rhythmless gibberish rush out onto the page. And yet the poetry is there, trapped inside of me.

A myriad of tiny suns lie dazzling in the grass
The blades of which my naked feet press softly as they pass.

But the second line has a hitch in it. And I didn’t capture the sky that was above the dandelions – the sprawling clouds, dark and angry, yet rimmed with crystal fire.

This post is long enough. And … I suppose Sir Eidolon didn’t do much harm after all. *condescending smile*

blank

2005-05-09T19:29:00.000-04:00

So here I am, seated comfortably, ready to type out my next post. I have a specific incident in mind - a certain set of emotions and ideas, ready to capture. But the words that sprang so readliy to mind mere moments ago slip my grasp. The post must wait.

And yet here I sit, typing, rather randomly. I suppose I could simply delete all this and wait to post until my original idea returns. But how wasteful that would be! So I will post this nothingness instead.

Before I leave, however, I will reveal one thing - this has not happened without cause. There is, indeed, a reason that the words will not obey my summons. I do not know how or why, but I know who is to blame.

It is the fault Sir Eidolon Oracle, Knight of the Quill.

Hope this isn't too long ...

2005-05-07T22:06:00.000-04:00

A little something I wrote on an urge. From the middle of something else, obviously; but whether a side note or the main idea of the as yet unwritten whole, I have no idea.

To point out at this moment that bad things come in threes would be very superstitious. But then, Ella was a very superstitious person. You wouldn’t know it to look at her – she wasn’t the kind to knock on wood or throw salt over her shoulder. At least, not in the physical sense. Yet just as there are varying levels of superstition, there are various ways to practice it; and she was actually a good deal more superstitious than many people who change their course to avoid crossing paths with a black cat. Such things, when done automatically, show hardly any superstition at all; and when performed seriously they indicate a belief that one has some control over one’s own fortune.

But Ella, in the attic of her mind that is generally avoided for fear of ghosts, believed she had no control whatsoever; and while there was no conscious connection, this kept her from some of the more ridiculous practices of superstition.

Consciously or not, Ella lived in a constant agony of expectation of the Third Bad Thing. All her thoughts took place beneath the ominous shadow that seemed to indicate its proximity – or worse, told of its distance. It must be a great thing indeed to cast a shade from so far away.

All her thoughts and plans floated on a calm surface; but beneath ran a strong undercurrent of fear. Every time she crossed the street she half-waited to be hit by a speeding truck. If she arrived at work minutes late, minutes early, or right on time, she wondered how this would grate on the already irritated nerves of certain people. During every conversation she sat on the edge of her seat; every time she glanced at the daily newspaper, it was in expectation of finding some horrible headline waiting for her. Her sleep was never easy.

Ella connected none of this with superstition. She barely knew her own state of mind; only she thought she was strung up from all that had happened. In her more self-aware moments, she admitted it would be nice to know everything was safe. From what she didn’t think to ask, and couldn’t have answered.

Whether she was really in danger, or all her fears were a pointless self torture, different people will have different opinions. If a Third Bad Thing were to happen at this very moment, many would jump from their seats and exclaim: “You see? She was right! It has happened.” To them it would come as no surprise – they are waiting along with her.

But many others would simply shrug. “Unlucky girl,” they would say – not really believing what they said, as luck is superstitious. “What a pity so many things have happened to her.” And they would trace the cause of her misfortune back to its source – part of which they would find rooted in her own actions and decisions – to prove that it had nothing to do with the number three.

This, of course, would not be proof against the law of Three Bad Things. Neither would the fact that three things indeed happened prove that there was. Who is actually right – those who believe in a thing that can’t quite be defined, the cause of their fears; or those who deny its existence altogether – no human being can tell. No man or woman is an impartial judge – in the end both sides will use the same event against the other to prove its point – and neither can be completely refuted. Thus to find if superstition has a real and legitimate cause for existence is impossible.

But something at least can be said from a writer’s view: That there are many, many things that are made real despite previous non-existence, simply because one believes them so. How often does a pen move across a page – fingers race across a keyboard – creating places, things, words, that are real, no less so for the fact that they remained unimagined minutes before? Yet whether these things were born at that moment, or already were, waiting to be discovered … not even the mind which sustains them knows.

The fact remains that, whatever anyone else believes, Ella was expecting the Third Bad Thing. And whether this expectation or the thing it believed in was involved or not, her superstition was not disappointed. Superstitious people seldom are.

Odds and Ends, Bits and Pieces

2005-05-02T19:32:00.000-04:00

Little tidbits too small to have a post on their own.

First of all - after a long period of vigilant watching, I have finally found Star Wars dark chocolate M&Ms! Delicious!! I hope they continue them after the movie's release, but doubt it ... too bad. They're better than the normal ones, and that's saying something.

And I thought you all might be interested in knowing I have a new pen. One that is red, and says 'precise V' on it. *nods* Finding its name was difficult. Since it was red, I obviously wanted something that sounded editorial. But nothing suitable came to mind. I thought of Lydia and Linda - don't ask why. I wanted girl names, since I have only one definitely female pen(cil). Linda is the name of one of my managers - appropriate?

No, it wasn't. Neither was Vela, nor Ed. (Ha ha - get it? Ed - from EDitor? Ha ha ...) In fact, this pen was highly insulted when I insisted that its name was Ed for an entire day.

In a fit of frustration, I responded fine, he wasn't Ed. He shall remain Nameless.

And Nameless he is - the Nameless. Fitting.

As I was pondering this post, I thought how wonderful it would be to say I was sitting with a nice cup of tea. The tea was prepared ... but then someone called my mom, and internet was out of the question. So, sadly, the tea is long gone - but it was a nice cup. The bag with which it was brewed was sent to me by my 'fake' cousin, Sarah, who is eight years old. She wrote to me saying she was sitting with a cup of peppermint tea, and thought suddenly that I would enjoy it - and so she sent me two tea bags. Isn't that the sweetest thing? To be thought of is a special thing ... and when one is thought of by such an innocent mind, it gives on a very beautiful feeling.

Ironically, the phone call which kept me from making this post was made by my 'fake' Aunt Kim - the mother of Sarah. I managed to steal the phone from my mother, and had a nice conversation with her about my online social life. She actually understood! I don't know if she even has an email address, but ... she didn't think 'online' and 'life' placed together were an oxymoron! Very satisfying.

*sniffles* And oh yes. I have a cold. My own nose hates me at the moment - it runs, it gets stuffy, and it gets red and irritated. How depressing when a member of one's own face is bent on making one suffer!

I'm not sure how to end this post now ... it's nice and rambling though, isn't it? I rather like it ... only my nose disagrees. What does it know ...

Something I've been meaning to post

2005-05-01T15:09:00.000-04:00

A few days ago at work, something interesting happened.

Well – it didn’t really happen. Meaning, it wasn’t really a happening. It was just one of those observations one makes of common, unnoticeable occurrences that makes them into happenings.

But what happened that wasn’t a happening was this. I was at work, watching the clock as the final minutes dragged by before I could leave for the comfort of home, when two teenage girls walked in with a woman who, I presume, was the mother of one of them. Now, I use the term ‘teenager’ loosely here – they were about 13. In their teen years, but not teenagers yet. But like many girls their age they were trying desperately to be teenagers – living up to the stereotypes they learn in school. While their dress was not … revealing, so to speak, I have no doubt it was only because they were still short enough to buy clothes from the girls’ section. The one had on a baseball cap, from which hung a ragged hairstyle, and beneath it’s brim her eyes were invisible. To be honest, I thought she looked like a tramp in training – but when my disgust is peaked it exaggerates things.

Their appearance I could handle. After all, one sees girls like this every day. But it was their attitude that really bugged me. They went through the store in a giggly way – but it was what they were giggling at that I found bothersome. I can’t quite pin down why I disliked them so much – and even if I could, I don’t think many people would understand, unless they had a similar set of values and ideas as I do.

But one, specific thing on their part basically sums it all up. I was waiting outside for my mom to rescue me when they left. They happened to approach the door at the same time as a guy who works there as well. He, in a very chivalrous manner, went through first and held the door open. Upon which the two girls burst promptly into a fit of giggling and said in coy, mocking voices: “We LIKE you.” (How hard to be a gentleman when no ladies are around …)

My disgust knew no bounds.

However, I didn’t tell this story just to show how easily disgusted I am. The reason it stuck with me at all was this – the minute those girls walked into the store, they reminded me of someone – or two someone. Me and a friend. One of several friends would fit the bill, but specifically my dear V came to mind. The way these girls laughed at stupid things; the way they didn’t care about any stares that might come their way; the way they acted in each other’s presence …. it was like watching a younger, evil us. What a surreal experience! One to make me grateful I’m homeschooled – and to remind me to watch myself, and make sure I never become the thing I detest.

Have I exaggerated these girls slightly? I will say for my conscience’s sake, maybe. But I think it makes my train of though a little easier to understand.

Something Random ...

2005-04-25T20:14:00.000-04:00

I think the best thoughts return to you, but each time deeper and more real.

I was thinking this evening about the different words I'd use to describe my friends' beauty. For example: Genevieve is gorgeous. Liz is beuatiful. Regina is beautifully pretty; Kim is prettily beautiful; Katie is beautifully cute; Megan is cutely pretty; etc. And it struck me, as it has before - when I try to picture my friends' souls, I find that their physical beings match who they are perfectly. They look like their souls. I used to wonder, did God design them - their appearance, especially their faces - to match their souls?

But this time, I thought - no. It's because our souls show through our eyes. The face is the most beautiful part of the human body - it is the part we always see, the part we recognize; the part that shows emotion; the part the speaks and hears. It is a window to the soul. People look like who they are because we can see their souls through the eyes.

Or I'm just imagining things. *grins*

My first post ...

2005-04-24T18:10:00.000-04:00

Well, I did it. I created a blog. It was a spur of the moment thing - I'm not completely sure what I'll be posting here. Perhaps deep and profound thoughts and insights, whose wisdom will blow people away. Perhaps whimsical and random nothings that don't make sense even to me. Perhaps a record of how I spend my days; what goals I have accomplished, and in what areas I have failed. Perhaps bad poetry and short creative writing.

But whatever I post, this blog will be me, completely and entirely. Maybe strangers won't come to know me through these posts. But my friends will read them and smile, saying: "That's my Rose."